


Dragon's Crown

by The_Exile



Category: Gemfire/Royal Blood
Genre: Bureaucracy, F/M, Mild Language, Spoilers, Terian victory, minor references to other games, postgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:24:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 37,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Exile/pseuds/The_Exile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ishmeria is reunified under the Tate banner but the evil that tainted its shores has not been truly vanquished. The conspiracy that began the War of Gemfire did not disappear when the war ended and dark magic still lingers in the very earth. When Terian himself fails to prevent the disaster from happening, the scattered exiles from the defeated families must return to save their homeland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologues

_Somebody/ Tell me why my strategy/ Fell apart/ Tell me why you broke my heart._

Prologue ~ Londre Tower, Londre, Ishmeria

_Ishmeria is at peace._

Terian smiled and set the newspaper down on his desk. The details were fairly accurate and the caricature of him not too insulting. He couldn't be that bad a tyrant, he thought with an amused smile, if the press at least dared to satirise him. It had helped that he had funded their printing press from the royal reserves, and ended the heavy censorship and enforced propaganda that had plagued them under Eselred's rule – he wanted Ishmeria rebuilt as a civilised nation, full of wise scholars and bards, and most of all he wanted to be told what was really going on, not what people thought he wanted to hear. He wasn't that interesting to caricature either; unlike Eselred, he had no particularly prominent or ugly features, He looked a lot younger than his thirty years, his face handsome and brooding, his blue eyes piercing, his dark curled hair kept short. For once in a long time – it felt like forever and was probably far too long, so that today's generation and their children had grown up knowing only war – there was nothing but good news to tell. 

It had taken five further years before Ishmeria looked even remotely hospitable. The unnatural plagues and disasters had died down; the priests had explained to him that the magical disturbances to the balance of the land were a result of the Gems being misused, and that the restless dead and other malevolent creatures that were now rarely sighted in the forests had also been summoned or created by the massive waves of chaotic magical power from the Gems. The natural wildlife was returning to the forests and the crops were growing in the right seasons again, bringing with them a more stable economy. Towns were rebuilding everywhere. Although some pro-Lankshire factions still caused trouble and there was still infighting on a small scale in some areas of the South, the country seemed to have a truly unified goal at last; bringing their once beautiful land back to its former glory. 

Despite being the largest scale battle in the entire history of the War of Gemfire, Terian's victory, if he could really call it his own, had been rather paradoxical, even anticlimactic. Their armies had met outside the gates of Londre. The forces had been fairly evenly matched, the Dragon locked in combat with the Pastha and unable to join in, forcing the two Generals to rely on good tactics alone. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Terian saw the deposed King jump from the walls and simply disappear off the face of Ishmeria, never to be seen again. Minutes later, a messenger had run up to him (messengers, like civilians, captives and priests, were considered dishonourable targets in battle) and passed him a scroll with the royal seal; a declaration of surrender. Conspiracy theories abounded, and the Ishmerian Times was still capitalising on some of the more ridiculous; Fey abduction. Demonic possession. Terian secretly leading a double life as Eselred. 

There were debates over Terian's ability to reign, of course, and speculations about the future, as many apprehensive as there were hopeful. The people were calling for a formal celebration to make the transition from war to peace seem more real, more final. Always the levelheaded one, his younger sister Anise had had warned him that their resources were running low. Eselred had wasted most of the country's funds, and he was determined not to make the same mistake.

Above all, whatever his faults as a King, he would not be another Eselred.

“Anise, could you pen a letter for me?” he asked suddenly. 

“To whom should I address it, Your Highness?” she asked, dipping her pen in her inkwell. 

“To whom it may concern,” he said, “Honoured friends, His Majesty the King of Ishmeria wishes to formally invite you to a celebration of our new-found peace and our ongoing reconstruction efforts...”

“Oh, we're having a festival? But we still don't have much money or food spare, you know...”

“We'll have saved up enough by the time our guests arrive. They'll have far to travel.”

“Should I inform the couriers they'll be running up north?”

“Ah, no, further than that,” he smiled, “Which is the fastest and sturdiest ship in the harbour?”

“That would be the trade ship Uncharted Waters,” she said, and added, “It leaves again tonight. Now we actually make enough grain to import, we have a good trade relationship going with El Salia. You should think of signing an official trade agreement. Talking of ships, the Bureau of Homeland Security wants to know why we still don't have a proper navy...”

“A trade ship might be apprehended by pirates, but nobody will ask questions,” he mused, ignoring her latest in a constant stream of urgent petitions, “I want our most reliable messenger on board that ship, and a few more guards than usual; say its because of fragile cargo. Don't tell anyone outside the family. There's a chance this could go wrong, or be misinterpreted.”

“You're always up to something, brother,” she said irreverently, giving him an impish grin, “So, what do you want written?”

Thirty seconds later, there was a knock at the door that he recognised as his younger brother, Bryan. He had spent all day in his room, studying as if his life depended on it. He was the University of Cambry's most distinguished patron and he was supposed to be taking an exam in three days' time. Terian sighed, “Family doesn't need to knock, Bryan.”

“Your Highness, the Princess Robyn and her entourage are here... she wishes to speak with you in private...”

Terian raised an eyebrow. It was a rare occasion that Eselred's daughter ever came out of her chamber, rarer still that she spoke to him. Since being freed from the Tower's dungeon, he expected her to be shy around strangers, maybe ashamed to be her father's daughter and afraid that the people would hate her for it, or even for the necessary but drastic measures she took to allow anyone the chance to stand up to her father – unleashing the magic from Gemfire, the crown of Ishmeria, by removing its gems, in order to summon the ancient magical guardians that protected the isle. However, he had also expected her to long for freedom, and to quickly warm to the peaceful new Ishmeria and the people who preferred their young, beautiful, tragic Princess to their untested King. He effectively ruled jointly with her, although he could not write up an official alliance with Lankshire, in case Eselred was not truly gone from the isle. 

Of course, he was expected to marry her at some point. However politically convenient it would be to have ties with the old Lankshire dynasty, he had no such plans. He was afraid to mention such a thing to the Princess, in case he sounded too forceful – he was technically her conqueror, and it would be easy to misinterpret his wishes as something less than innocent. He was worried that she was afraid of him, and was appearing aloof and uncaring in order to avoid showing weakness. Furthermore, he did not actually love her. He admired her beauty, inner strength and bravery. He wanted to protect her and make sure she did well in life, and not to be haunted by the phantoms of her past any more. That wasn't enough to be considered love. He didn't really even know her. He had never met her before he had carried her out of the front gates of the Tower, and since then, she hadn't talked to her. When they did speak, her closest retainers always followed her everywhere: Lady Karla, a far tougher old battleship of a woman than the Uncharted Waters, and Griff, a homicidal Southern ex-border guard who protected her with his life. They terrified him, and clearly did not approve of his un-Lankshire impurity. He was not going to risk their wrath, and he did not wish to marry a girl simply because he had rescued them from Eselred's captivity. He had rescued the entire nation from Eselred's captivity. That would be far too many wives.

“Tell Her Majesty I would be deeply honoured to meet her as soon as I have taken care of a small matter of business.”

“She says, would you like some help with it? She is worried that you seem awfully busy lately and she can help with a lot more of the work.”

“Tell her...” he smiled, imagining her reaction when she found out. If he played his cards right, he would finally be able to prove that he was not her father, and was not her conqueror either, “Tell her I'm keeping it as a surprise for her birthday!”

* * *

Forest of Stowe, Vermilion

The small boat drifted silently towards the shore, where its owner, a tall, broad-shouldered figure whose features were entirely hidden beneath a leaf-green hooded cloak, moored it, fastened the oars to the side and jumped out. He did not make a sound apart from a faint splash as he landed in the shallow water before disappearing into the thick forest, where the mist was rising.

The forest was untamed, not a place where people lived (although, he considered, the perfect place for a weary exile to live out the rest of their days in peace, no longer hassled by the remnants of whatever politics led to their downfall) and so there were no waypoint markers or even footpaths. Together with the ethereal white haze that slowly enveloped the land like a burial shroud, it was difficult to navigate through the tightly packed trees that fought for space, their roots snaggling across the canopy floor and threatening to trip him up. With his quarterstaff, he carefully prodded the ground before him to check for anything he could stumble over. Cautious as he was, the lone traveller could also hear everything around him. He sensed no human presence but the air buzzed with life. Nocturnal animals were beginning to stir from their slumber; fireflies that danced like the dying embers of flames as they courted each other, bats with their strange high-pitched cries that he could barely hear, shapes that flitted across his vision as small, wary animals darted from one bush to the next, afraid to become the next meal of the distantly howling wolves. He paid them no heed. No wild animal would be interested enough in him to bother taking the risk of approaching him, not when their food was already so plentiful. In turn, he had no need to disrupt their world. He could afford no distractions at all; his mission was both vital and urgent. 

Almost unconsciously, his large hands reached inside the folds of his cloak, where he located the reassuring weight of the letter concealed there. Once again he mentally recited the contents of the message, together with the long list of people he was required to deliver it to, and their locations. He wasn't far away now. Despite the remote land, the dark and the mist, the lack of even a clear sky to navigate by, he knew exactly where he was going.

Quite suddenly, he felt the atmosphere around him change. One by one, the animals began to fall silent. He stopped still, one hand tightening around his quarterstaff. Behind him, he heard the first rustling in the bushes, slightly too hesitant, too deliberate, to be an animal. The sound was soon followed by similar noises from all directions. He was already surrounded. His pursuers were well trained and thorough, just as he knew they would be.

He whipped out his staff, swinging it in a wide arc to deflect a thrown knife. Jumping over the bush in front of him (and the trap concealed within it), he swung the staff in the other direction, parrying the curved blade of the first assailant, lunging at him from behind the nearby tree, with enough force to knock it away so he could close in for a blow that cracked the man's skull. Then he broke into a run, weaving his way through the trees, his staff a whistling blur as he defended himself against the silent, dark-clothed assassins who poured from the trees. Time ceased to flow, instead leaping from one present moment to the next, one turning after the other, a counter-blow for every attack. Staying on route was as important as staying alive; letting them sidetrack him was as much a defeat as his death.

Suddenly, he saw light and knew that he was near to completing his mission. Or was everything getting too bright, suddenly? He felt light-headed, a strange sense of peace mixed with dread washing over him despite the adrenaline and the natural flow of battle that spurred him on. He distantly realised that his body was failing him. Irritably, he snatched at something by shoulder that was obstructing his view slightly. That was when he discovered the tiny dart. It hadn't drawn blood; he hadn't even noticed he had been shot. Of course, if an assassin was hired by people with as much money as he knew they had, they would be using poison. 

His eyes narrowed, grim, silent determination replacing his earlier casual battle-thrill. In the balance of things, his life was of no import, but he could not fail his mission. The message would be delivered. Time enough to surrender to death afterwards; all the time in the world.


	2. Dragons

“Prince Leander,” said the voice, which had an almost mechanical weariness to it.

“Who, now?” he replied, his tone immediately changing from one of cautious neutrality to scorn. He did not look up. He was not good at diplomacy; he would not be able to keep a straight face if he met the man's eyes. Instead, he held his lantern to the ground and checked one of his traps, trying to keep up the appearance of a busy, annoyingly unsuccessful hunter who did not appreciate being interrupted just as he was settling down for the night. His pet pseudodragon, Burgundy, had also been woken up by the noise, and scurried out of the door after him. Wary of strangers, it curled around his leg and hissed at the intruder.

“Prince Leander of Molbrew,” he repeated, “I have an urgent message for you from King Terian.”

“Do I look like a Prince to you?” he snarled, “Be off with you, and find the right man, before that King of yours has your fool head on a spike.”

It was true; he did not look a like a Prince any more. The clothes he had fled Ishmeria in had long since gone to rags and he had bought himself something plainer and more suitable for forest life with the last of the money he had managed to pocket. He had also made himself a nice bearskin cloak. Combined with his unruly mane of golden hair and scraggly beard that refused to grow in a manly or impressive way, but made him look like some kind of were-goat (Lars had pointed out that it did a good job of preserving his anonymity, though), he looked just about as far away as possible from anything that would be invited into a royal court. He wasn't even all that physically powerful – he was aging too quickly - so he wouldn't make a convincing royal guard captain. Possibly a deranged jailer, although he didn't suppose the castle dungeon saw much use these days.

“My mission requires me to pass this message on to every former Ishmerian Prince who is currently alive and in exile,” he continued on as though he hadn't even heard the man's protests, “My intelligence network tells me that many of the exiles, including Leander of Molbrew, are still in contact with each other and have organised an alliance in order to pursue the mutual goal of returning to Ishmeria. If I pass the message on to one of them, it will undoubtedly reach the others.”

“Sounds like a good way to get yourself stabbed in the back, messing about in those kinds of affairs,” he growled. Burgundy hissed his agreement.

“Which is exactly why you are hiding your identities,” replied the man, walking past him, towards the front door of his hut. He would have had a crossbow bolt in the head of any other man who approached his property without his permission but something about the stranger made him uneasy. Maybe it was the casual arrogance of his intrusion and the demands he made, or the simple fact that he was from Ishmeria and therefore meant big trouble. The man stopped at a bench he had made from half a log, next to the remains of a campfire. He bent down and pulled something from underneath the bench; a newspaper.

“The Ishmerian Times. It must be hard to acquire foreign newspapers in a forest in the middle of nowhere,” he said, “I need your promise that you will relay this message to all of your contacts who are on the list, including both Erin and Ander, no matter how often one threatens you with death if you inform the other.”

He blinked, almost amused by the man's shrewd observation of the two. Erin and Ander had once been the strongest powers in Ishmeria besides the throne itself, and had always used their power to do nothing but bicker at each other. Even now, they fought over things they had both decisively lost. _Am I the only one who even bloody realises we've lost?_

“I might know someone who knows someone who has the first idea what the hell you're talking about,” he admitted, feeling proud at himself at such a diplomatic turn of phrase.

“Then it is agreed,” he said, pressing the message into Leander's arms.

“Wait a minute, why don't you deliver the bloody thing yourself? They don't exactly live next door!” he yelled, annoyed at the man's assumption that Leander would go along with the task he was given, as though he was a messenger boy; worse, a messenger boy for another messenger boy who was evidently too lazy to do his own work.

“I... have run out of time,” he said, his voice suddenly distant, “Please be careful.”

“Be careful? Why should I be careful? Of what?” he yelled, but the man had already dashed off into the night without making a sound. Leander's instinct was to chase after him, to grab him and force a straight answer out of him, but it would be foolish to go running off into the forest now that night had fallen. He could always just read the letter. Muttering a curse to himself, he sat down on the bench and set the lantern down beside him to illuminate the battered-looking scroll case. The royal seal was genuine. As he carefully unwrapped the scroll, he realised that nothing about the man had felt right. Not in a supernatural manner – although there were all sorts of odd things living on the magic-saturated isle of Ishmeria, and he hadn't seen any other human run quite that fast before – but there was something forced about the calm in his voice and the preciseness of his movements. As if he was hiding something, and he was in a lot more trouble than he appeared to be. Trouble that would come after Leander, undoubtedly, for owning the stupid bloody message.

Trouble that might be coming after them all. The messenger had known a lot more about them than he ought to, and he had mentioned others. 'Be careful', he had warned. 

Having the information before any of the others made him more of a target, but it also gave him more of an idea of what was going on, and therefore what kind of danger he could expect. He carried on reading to the end of the letter, then went inside to rest until first daylight, when it would be safer to cross the forest. However, he didn't fall asleep. Even if he could, after reading the contents of that letter, he would not have slept on a night like this. He wouldn't have dared. Something more was stirring in the forest than wolves and bears; something deadlier.

* * *

Unknown Location, Ishmeria

_  
Be reborn, Dragon..._

_He remembered the colours. The flames, leaping and twirling in the sky, their trails burning imprints of light into the deep, dark night sky like the tails of comets. The hooded robes, swirling around as the seven dancers chanted and spun in ever more rapid and tighter circles, their words ancient and commanding._

_Your life returns..._

_Your strength returns..._

_The wisps of light flare, growing larger and brighter, dancing around each other like planets in a map of the cosmos gone crazy. He can only lie on the forest bed, breathing in the primal scents, feeling the power of the land flow through him, anchoring him to something larger... something he was eternally bound to..._

_Be reborn..._

_Dragon...  
_

He blinked, confused to have woken up in such a place and surprised to even be alive. The infirmary was a sharp contrast to the forest where he had lost consciousness; sheer white walls, the smell of disinfectant, the busy scurrying of the doctors, one of whom flashed him a comforting smile as they caught his eye and realised he was awake. 

“I'm surprised you recovered so fast,” commented the doctor, immediately picking up instruments to probe him with, testing that he really was fully healed, “Even for... one of you... at your level of conditioning... that was a very strong poison. It would have killed an ordinary man instantly.”

“I'm surprised to be alive at all,” he replied, no hint of weakness in his voice. 

“You were recovered by Scylla, who happened to discover that you were in danger and pinpoint your location,” said the doctor, “Had you been brought here any later, I would not have been able to heal you.”

“I need to speak to Skulryk,” he said.

“Your superior has already been called for. Please try and rest. You aren't well enough to leave.”

Although he didn't feel at all weak, he nodded and leaned back against the pillows, trying to peer past the doctor to see what was written on the charts and clipboards hung above his bed. Although he was no doctor himself and therefore probably wouldn't understand most of the jargon, he might be able to glean a rough idea of whether he was going to live through the day, or any other glaring inconsistencies in what the doctor was telling him. After a few minutes of this distraction, the door swung open and a dark-haired young man in a rather fetching but old-fashioned suit and tailcoat walked towards him, brandishing a clipboard.

“The wards of silence have been cast,” the doctor assured him, “You can talk here. We will leave while you discuss your private matters, of course.”

He nodded, then turned to the man in the hospital bed.

“We apologise for placing you in such danger without backup. We were not fully aware of the situation,” he said.

“It is my duty to carry out all missions assigned to me, and my honour to serve,” he inclined his head respectfully, “I was warned there might be assassins. I accept responsibility for any failure on my part.” 

“Have you failed your mission, then?” his tone promised neither pardon nor punishment.

He shook his head, “The message is in the hands of those who were meant to receive it. Although I cannot completely guarantee that everyone on the list will receive the message, it is likely to be passed on to at least a few. I apologise for my lack of thoroughness.”

“If one knows, the rest will find out. You should trust our intelligence more,” replied Skulryk, “Also, we do not expect a one hundred per cent turnout. Situations change. There are some situations that would make a man impossible to track down.”

“I am still in favour?”

“You have performed your duties admirably, under the circumstances. Your loyalty will be noted,” he said, “And we have valuable information as a result. Our worst fears are confirmed.”

“Then the ones who sent the assassins were really...?”

Skulryk nodded, “We sent you in place of the regular messenger as soon as we realised that the guards assigned to protect him had been switched at some point. To send more than one agent would have been noticed, and interpreted as a breach of impartiality, if we were not absolutely sure we could prove the situation. I'm sure you can understand. But now we know they intend to openly attack even the strictly impartial Crown messengers...”

“We can begin a pre-emptive counter-attack?”

He shook his head, “There is a danger we would be forced to fight our own again. We might lose one of our number permanently this time. Or Ishmeria itself might be destroyed. The Island's infrastructure has still not recovered from the effects of the last incident. If we can avoid direct confrontation – if we can use any element of surprise we have left – we should do so.”

“You mean our visitors? They'll just plunge Ishmeria into another war.”

“They don't have the resources any more. They command nothing, and have no influence in Ishmeria. Even if they could start the war over again, they won't be so hasty, after losing the first time around,” he said, “No, they will look for other ways. And we will be there for them, to make sure they find those other ways. Just as we were there for them before. Just as we are always there for Ishmeria. You ARE loyal to Ishmeria, aren't you, Dragon?”

Sweating slightly from the weight behind the question, as though it was a knife thrown deliberately to hit the space inches above his head, he nodded respectfully, “Of course, sir.”

“Very good. How do you feel?”

“Like I'm recovering already.”

“You will rest anyway, until the doctor is absolutely sure you are fit to return to service. You will report any other problems you experience. Understand?”

“Understood.”

“As always, this mission, and everything discussed in this room, is classified top secret,” he said, “Now get some rest.”

With those words, he left the room and the doctor went back to performing uncomfortable tests on him. He wondered how he was expected to rest when this was happening. He also wondered how he was supposed to rest at all when his conditioning made it feel so unnatural for him not to be working for the defence of Ishmeria. He tried to imitate Master Pluvius, who could switch himself to a kind of standby mode when he was not needed, or when ordered to by his own superiors (he did, apparently, have superiors, although Dragon could not fathom the nature of such beings). Sometimes, he had been told, it was necessary to do so for years at a time. A true Agent of Gemfire was a machine, performing a function for the larger mechanism that was Ishmeria, like the cogs and wheels that drove the clock in the town hall of Londre. 

To his surprise, he began to feel sleepy almost as soon as the doctor wandered away, still scribbling notes on his clipboard, and drew the bedcurtain so that he would not be disturbed. All the tension he had been holding within himself was released and he felt himself sinking into a sea of white mist that roared and crackled in his ears. It was not unpleasant. It wasn't his choice at all, he realised. Sometimes sleep just happened, and he could no more resist it than he could hold back the sea. It was real sleep as well, not the thing he was used to these days until he could enter true stasis; a few hours' wait where time passed too quickly for him to care.

Dreams came to him very shortly afterward.

* * *

He walked through the streets of Londre again. It was night and he was alone, despite the usual bustle of the capital city, with its tall buildings and wide streets. A pang of longing stabbed him through the heart, so excruciatingly euphoric and devastating at the same time that he wanted to fall to the ground and cling there as though he could fall off the next time the world spins around, to feel the soil of Ishmeria and be there in spirit, at least for one night. The powerful tremor through his whole body made him lose his balance and lurch forward but he caught himself on the railing of the bridge. He recognised Tower Bridge, built across the River Wenrock that divided Londre neatly in half. He leaned on it for support and looked out across the great river. The setting sun flickered across the water, setting both skies on fire. Below it, he saw the imposing sillhouette of the Town Hall. Its clock ticked, rhythmic and inexorable and his heartbeat in time with it. The hollow echo only reminded him of how utterly alone he was.

 **Where did all the people go,** he whispered to himself in his head.

 **They can't be here if you're here,** came the reply, **and when they're here, you can't be. Its very simple.**

**Who are you? Why are you...?**

**Reading your thoughts? Because we're very close to each other. And there are certain things even they can't take away from us.**

**I don't think I should be talking to you. I don't think I should even be here.  
**  
Are you going to send me away, too? Please don't send me away. Please don't...

He threw himself out of the way just as the sunset exploded, taking out the bridge with it. He managed to scramble for cover moments before he was showered by burning masonry. The entire bridge had been torn apart as though it were paper. Through clouds of dust and ash, he saw its eyes; glowing red, piercing the darkness, utterly without mercy. It opened its reptilian jaws, bearing hundreds of serrated teeth, and shrieked its rage at the heavens. Unable to avert his gaze, he drew his sword, dropped into a fighting stance and waited.  
 **  
Its futile to fight a losing battle,** said the voice inside his head, **let's die here, and be here forever.**

He sprang bolt upright, sweat pouring down his face.

* * *

The room immediately buzzed into quiet panic. One of the doctors called for security. Two others grabbed a straitjacket, while another picked up a syringe from the table; tranquilisers strong enough to subdue a horse, no doubt. He wasn't supposed to show much emotion at all; they were worried that he was about to lose control entirely and fly into a berserk rage. He could probably kill everyone in this room without picking up a weapon. He wasn't angry, though; just confused. He sat on the edge of the bed, blinking and staring at the doctors as though he had never seen them before. After a very short time, Skulryk ran back inside.

“Dragon, is there a problem?” he asked, speaking to Dragon as if talking down a large, angry dog, “Are you hurting anywhere?”

“In my dream...”

“Gem Wizards don't have dreams. Is something wrong with your conditioning?” 

“I don't know. I can't remember,” he frowned, “I think I had a son. Do I have a son?”

“Your memory is coming back?” he frowned, “But that's not possible... the mind wipe is permanent...”

“He was fine two hours ago!” commented the doctor.

“I want to see my son,” insisted Dragon. His tone wasn't aggressive but didn't leave room for argument.

“Dragon, yes, you have a son and we know where he is, but it isn't possible to see him at the moment. We'll bring him to see you soon, if you'll just calm down and please try not to kill everyone...”

“Why did you make me forget my son?” he looked genuinely pained.

“Some Agents have a past that would conflict with their ability to remain neutral in the defence of Ishmeria. Its important that you are not recognised, and you don't recognise anyone from your past. That's all. We haven't hurt anyone close to you,” he promised.

“My son didn't sound well...”

“We'll look into it,” he promised, “Please, something's gone wrong with your conditioning, and we need to fix it. It'll be because of the stress of fighting off the poison. You need to go into standby now. Properly.”

“Is that wise?” asked the doctor.

“Can you suggest an alternative?” replied Skulryk.

“I saw something else in the dream,” said Dragon, “Londre Tower Bridge was attacked. By a... I think it was a Wyvern. I know that we Fifth Units can sometimes have prophetic dreams. Like Scylla finding me. I'm worried the Capital is in danger.”

“You are right. A rampaging Wyvern... would be a problem. We'll send someone over to watch the Capital right away. Doctor, could you guide Dragon through the shutdown procedure again? He's not fully trained yet. I've got other business to attend to.”

* * *

The doctor nodded and Skulryk walked out of the clinic and down the corridor. It took him five minutes to reach Zendor's office, which was three floors up, as he was the second highest ranking Agent of Gemfire and therefore deserved a more impressive office. Of course, the old man was expecting Skulryk and had already spread the relevant files out over his enormous oak desk. He whistled as he wrote a few corrections and updates using his quill pen, which levitated upon his command.

“This is about Dragon, yes?” asked Zendor, his voice cracking with age but still stern, “There was an incident. I heard the commotion, and I felt a magical interference. Some kind of resonance, or signal from outside.” 

Skulryk explained what had happened, taking care not to leave out anything he thought might be an important detail.

“Very worrying, considering what happened to put him in the clinic in the first place,” said Zendor.

“Do you think she knows?”

“Oh, no, she probably just didn't want that message to go anywhere,” said the old wizard, deftly crossing a 't', “But if she finds out, she will accuse us of plotting against her.”

“If she attacks our messengers again, I'll do more than plot against her,” Skulryk snapped his fingers and a tiny purple wisp of poisonous smoke, no more dangerous than most substances people in Ishmeria tried to smoke on a regular basis but suitably menacing in a man who could make enough of it to rout a small army.

“That's for Pluvius to decide,” replied Zendor, “And you need to worry more about Dragon. That wasn't just a dream. Nor was it prophetic. He was genuinely contacted.”

“By his son? Are we witnessing an Awakening?” 

“Quite possibly. And an unusually powerful one, at that. Memory wipes are powerful magic, and Dragon's was done by Pluvius, yet that boy just broke the spell effortlessly.”

“It could be attributed to the... unusual nature of Dragon's new host. It has not been attempted before. You must also remember that the Dragon Gem was already malfunctioning, and took the most damage in the battle. It had to be damaged that much, to subdue it.”

“If that Gem is still malfunctioning – and it had better not be, considering how long Pluvius and I spent repairing the dratted thing – then it will be a danger to all Ishmeria,” warned the wizard, “Tighten the host's conditioning, keep him training and strengthening his powers, repeat the memory wipe if possible. And don't take your eyes off him for a moment.”


	3. History

A Cheap Inn, Outskirts of Vermilion City 

"Time will fly and futures unfold/Through the darkened sky to the land of mystery/Scars of dreams won't break this destiny/Follow me, I am making history/Never again are we to see the green fields of Ishmeria!"

A sudden round of applause surprised Lars out of his reverie. He had been so deep inside himself, dredging his soul for the last depths of the homesickness that never went away, but came back fresh and new with the morning dew every time the sun rose, that he didn't see his audience of two men behind him, one standing in the doorway with half a bottle of absinthe, one leaning on the balcony, his stare intense, a dejected look on his angular face. But if I was any good at spotting rear ambushes, he thought to himself, I wouldn't bloody well be here. He realised how filthy that statement sounded and stored it away in his memory in case he was asked to write any bawdy lyrics in the future.

“I'm glad you lot like it,” he commented, “I hope the crowd like it enough that we can pay the innkeeper this week.”

“I don't know how you manage it,” sighed Eadric, collapsing his head onto his folded arms and peering whistfully over the balcony. He looked like a lover from a tragedy play, about to throw himself to his death because he couldn't be with the love of his life that he met five minutes ago. It was half true; he was gazing out to sea, and it didn't take a genius to work out which direction he was looking in. It was less obvious what Garth saw; he appeared to be looking up at the sky, and Lars was fairly sure his bottle was full earlier that morning, “I've had writer's block for weeks. There just aren't words for what I want to express. Well, there are lots of words, but none of them quite work properly. Its like trying to find words that rhyme with 'adieu'.”

“But we have to try,” insisted Lars, taking Eadric's notebook from him and inspecting it thoughtfully. 

“Why? Why is it so important? Who gives a shit what happens to us here?”

“Because,” he sighed, wincing at Eadric's atrocious handwriting. His command of the language, his meter, verse, spelling and vocabulary, were actually much better than Lars, if you could actually read what he wrote. It didn't help that he filled his pages with crossed-out mistakes, correcting his corrections until he couldn't figure out what order anything was supposed to be in any more, “If we don't write something, they'll get the final word, and they'll have written history. And they'll write us out of it. So there really will be nobody who remembers us, or cares what happens to us. And history will continue down its skewed path, with nobody to remember all the other stories, and all the other fates, apart from the victors. That's why exiles all over the world write bad poetry about how much they miss their homes.”

“Maybe we deserve to just fade into the mists of time,” said Eadric, “I don't to spend my life as the... as the bloody Bard of Defeat.”

“We should use that as our pseudonym,” suggested Garth, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Nights were warm and humid in the city of Vermilion. It was difficult to get used to. He was vaguely thinking of shaving off his beard but was morbidly afraid that it might make him look like Erik.

“Don't write it as purely a defeat, then. Warn that bastard Terian about our eventual glorious homecoming,” said Lars, ignoring Garth, “We aren't all inspired by the same thing. Garth doesn't even write from his own perspective. Read him your poem, Garth.”

The older man blushed, “Its still under construction!”

“So was mine, at the time you so rudely barged in on me. I don't care if it isn't perfect, I just want you to illustrate my point,” he insisted. 

“When I look at you, I don't know what to do/With your hair so fair and your eyes so blue/And you will break my heart if you do tell me nay, so do I make you mine or do I send you away?” sung Garth, to the tune of an overly cheerful song that was played during the Ishmerian banishment ceremony, “When I look at you I want to see your smile/And your eyes to shine, you say you'll stay a while/Every day I wait my love for you grows/Please don't fade away, oh Ishmeria's rose!”

Eadric burst into laughter, “And who is this about? Gweyn? Anise? Erin?”

Garth blushed an even deeper shade of red, “Well... to be honest, I didn't know, when I wrote it. This is just what came into my head. Does it sound too cheerful? I could try and make it sound ironic...”

“That's fine. Some audiences want to be cheered up, and not all of us have a head full of darkness and Wyverns,” said Lars, frowning and looking up at the sky, “They fly through my dreams, too.”

“Have you ever seen a Wyvern?” asked Garth.

“Only once,” he said, “I couldn't look at it more than once. And I couldn't sleep that night. I think its true, you know, what they say. Wyverns are death's wings. The worst fates follow the ones who stand under their shadow.”

“Only if they spot you on the walls, and then decide to eat the walls,” said Garth.

“Can we talk about something else?” asked Eadric, shuddering.

“You're scared of them too?” asked Lars.

“Its not exactly an uncommon fear,” Eadric pointed out, “Or an irrational one.”

“At least they're not dragons,” said Garth, “Now, I could tell you a story or two about dragons...”

Suddenly, there was a furious pounding at the door. Lars drew his rapier first, edging towards the window. They weren't expecting trouble, but then Lars was bad at predicting trouble, and they hadn't paid their rent for a few days now, and the City Watch had always been suspicious of them.

“Let me in, you bastards! I travel for a day straight and you don't even open the bloody door for me?” screamed a voice.

“Hello there, Leander!” said Garth, opening the door. Burgundy darted inside and sniffed Eadric's trouser leg inquisitively, “We haven't seen you for a long time. How's business?”

“I see you're as discreet as ever in your business with our secret alliance,” said Lars.

“At least I don't stage open air performances about it!”

“Ah, but that's what They would least expect us to do,” insisted Lars, “Its a double bluff. Reverse psychology.” 

“Its okay, the innkeeper says he doesn't care what the crazy Ishmerian vagrants get up to as long as they don't make too much noise at night and try to pay him once in a while,” said Garth, sipping his absinthe.

“I think you might have bigger problems to deal with soon than your rent arrears,” said Leander, sitting on the edge of Garth's bed and leaning in to whisper into Lars' ear, “I have a letter for you. For everyone.”

They gathered together on the bed, ignoring the ominous crack as the shoddily constructed furniture started to give way, and each tried to peer over the other's shoulder to get the best view of Leander's letter. 

“Bloody hell,” whispered Eadric poetically.

* * *

_By Royal Decree of His Majesty King Terian of Ishmeria,_

_The following persons have now been pardoned of their indefinite banishment from the country of Ishmeria and the outlying province of Lisle, and are invited to Londre Castle at their earliest opportunity for a meeting to discuss post-reunification regeneration and the future of Ishmeria, as well as the personal future and suitable compensation of His Majesty's displaced vassals, after which there will be a week long festival to celebrate Ishmeria's hard-won peace._

_His Majesty hopes that this letter finds you in good health, and that you will be able to return to Ishmeria as soon as possible. If you know of any persons who should be in receipt of this letter and who have not seen its contents, you are legally required to pass on the message. His Majesty understands that it will be a lengthy operation to return multiple people from exile, and has scheduled the festival for next April.  
_

Lars scanned the list of names that followed the opening line. He was disgusted to see that his bitterest rival, Erik, was mentioned by name (why would any self-respecting newly crowned King have any dealings with such undesirables, and with the peace still so uneasy?). As well as Erik and himself, everyone sitting in the room and the other exiled former Princes and their retinue, where they had been accompanied into exile, plus Princess Gweyn and, at the end of the list, Adryl.

“... the outlying province?” Garth snorted absinthe out of his nose, narrowly missing the letter, “Lisle's a perfectly legitimate part of Ishmeria! And I'm not his bloody vassal! Even if it would make Lisle part of Ishmeria!”

“... Garth, nobody cares,” Eadric sighed, “We're all more interested in the bit where it says we can go home. Garth, we can go home!”

“I don't trust him one bit,” said Lars.

“They do say 'if its too good to be true, it probably isn't',” mused Garth.

“Leander, you said the messenger was behaving oddly when he delivered the letter?” asked Eadric.

“He seemed in a hurry. Said he couldn't deliver the message to you in person, even though he knew all about us and our little alliance.”

“Someone knows about us? Leander, why didn't you tell me this sooner?” Lars' fingers tightened around his pen, spilling ink all over his long, elegant fingers. He had always looked like a scholar, or maybe a bureaucrat who wasn't old enough to be jaded or corrupt yet. Not a warrior. 

“I only just found out. Like I said, this messenger came out of nowhere, in the middle of the night. And he disappeared the moment I took my eyes off him. He wasn't an ordinary person,” added Leander, “You know I'm good at sensing that kind of thing, and I've seen a lot of it. Mostly while it's been trying to set me on fire,” Leander winced, feeling his old battle wounds again. Reacting to his master's pain, the lizard whined and rested his head on Leander's arm, licking his hand with a rough forked tongue. Leander patted him on the head and searched his pockets for a strip of dried meat to feed him, “And he told me to be careful. Nothing else, just 'be careful'. Oh, and that he was late.”

“Well, its only a month until April,” mused Eadric, “We'd need a bloody fast boat if we were going to get back in time, even if we knew where everyone was and could persuade them to come back with us and not try to murder me. Adryl alone is going to take us a month to find. None of our contacts has the first clue where he is.”

“Are you seriously thinking of following the instructions on this letter?” asked Lars.

“It says its a legal requirement,” said Eadric.

“Eadric, this almost certainly isn't from the King,” said Lars, “Terian's a very straightforward man. He doesn't send weird messengers to people in the middle of the night. He doesn't give people vague warnings. There's also no reason for him to invite us back. He might be a good man, but we're his enemies, and he's killed friends of ours. For all he knows, we're plotting his death right now. Either someone is setting us up for an ambush, or they're trying to con us into thinking we're allowed to return, in the hope we'll killed by the guards.”

“So, some evil villain is plotting against us all, indiscriminately, and happens to be able to perfectly reproduce the royal seal,” said Eadric, “Even if this theory of yours is true, why hasn't someone with these kind of resources just murdered us all in our sleep, and what exactly is going on in Ishmeria now, to provoke such a treacherous act? I thought Terian had everything under control. He's a strong leader, Ander. He's not going to have let the country fall back into chaos in the... how long have we been away now?”

“Five years, three months, fifteen days, three hours and fifteen minutes,” said Lars, sighing, “Feels like only yesterday...”

“You know, there are good reasons why Terian would invite us back,” said Garth, wiping his beard on his sleeve, “He likes to give the appearance of being a benevolent and just ruler. He wants the people to think he's not another Eselred. He probably wants to undo everything Eselred set out to do. Now he's eliminated the immediate threat to Ishmeria, he might even be thinking of putting the outer provinces back under independent rule. Quite a lot of people just want Ishmeria back the way it was, before any of this mess ever started.”

“You can't honestly trust him that far,” said Lars, “He... he invited back Erik.”

“Regardless of Terian's intent... and I believe this letter was genuinely sent by Terian...” said Garth, “It would be an unjust act not to pass this on to the others, if only to give them the opportunity to decide for themselves. And if there really is trouble brewing in Ishmeria, we have the duty to do something about it, if only to warn everyone else, in case it doesn't stop at scam letters. I... I'm half thinking of going to Ishmeria's defence, welcome or no.” 

“And if it does come down to another battle, there's strength in numbers,” said Eadric.

“You know... have you ever considered that it might have been wiser just to band together to defeat Eselred in the first place?” said Leander.

“Be quiet!” snapped Lars, “I had to make sure Erik didn't get the crown, okay? Then Ander saw me mobilising and got a little paranoid. I didn't realise how much it was escalating until it was too late. Not that it was my fault or anything. Eselred clearly started it...” 

“Its all a little moot now,” said Eadric, “But I'm afraid you're outvoted on this one, Lars. We need to show this to the others, and we need to do it sooner rather than later. Loryn will be the quickest and easiest to reach. He stays with close friends of family in Erion Forest, and he told me that he has never found occasion to leave. The boat leaves tomorrow, and we just have enough money left to pay the fare there and back. After that, we find Erin or Ander. One will know where the other is. Adryl will be almost impossible, Dullahan knows where Gweyn’s gone, we might be able to get another message to Erik and persuade him to meet us somewhere. Anyone who doesn't want to come with us, at least stay where you are and wait to see if anyone else responds to our contact. Someone will need to explain things to the others.” 

“I'm not staying here if you lot are plotting to go back to Ishmeria without me,” said Lars. Garth nodded his agreement, already packing his books and pens back into his bags. One by one, the former Princes young and old began following his example. They had all fallen silent. Above and beyond all the thoughts that raced through their minds, worries and hopes for the future, tactical planning for the best and worst scenarios they could imagine, suspicion of the others and wild poetic inspiration, one thought slowly dawned upon them. It had taken a long time to sneak past their defences, slowly but surely, and now it hit them with its full force.

They had been given a chance to go home.


	4. Omens

Elven Homestead, Erion Forest, Erion

“Eloryndisei Warsong,” began the herald in a high-pitched, fluting voice, “You have been summoned to appear before the Court of the May, first thing after mid-meal.”

“Tell the Elder I shall be there promptly,” replied the young man, his face a disciplined mask of calm. His morning meditation had almost been at an end when the herald's message interrupted him. After five years of practice, he wasn't startled out of his trance by the knock. He slowly brought himself back from one state of mind to the other, allowing his thoughts to gradually speed up, more of the outside world to seep into his consciousness. That was the secret of meditation; don't suppress your worries, but notice them all and gradually let them slow down and come to a halt once they had burned out. He knew he would never be as clear-minded or strong-willed as the elves who spent all of their long lifespans practising like this every morning as part of their daily routine, just as he would not have heard the herald if he had decided to sneak up on him instead of politely knock. However, he was determined to at least make an effort to learn the ways of the elves, enough to be tolerated in elven society for a reason other than pity, charity or his family heritage. 

If I can manage that much, he thought with a hint of grim irony, I'll have achieved more here than I had done in human society. But then, elves did not think like humans. Over the years he had spent here, hiding in exile in his mother's former home town, he had come to realise how different the two races were. They were always perfectly courteous, but he knew as well as they did that he was not an elf, and this was not his home.

He was only grateful for the long swathes of forest for him to wander, for hours on end, until he became lost. Lost from himself, his situation, and the pain. It was the only way he could forget his homesickness, some days, just to keep wandering, let the calm, repetitive motion of putting one foot in front of the other soothe the dull ache in the back of his mind in a way that meditation never quite managed. Maybe if he kept on moving, he wouldn't count as having gone anywhere until the day he could go home. He had wanted to go into the forest this afternoon, but he didn't think a meeting with the Court would be over fast enough to allow him the free time. Not that he was in trouble; he had his suspicions on what the meeting would be about, and while it would take a long time to discuss, even by the standards of a two-hundred-year-old politician from a race that had virtually no sense of time in the first place, there would be no reason to punish him for anything. He would have training later in the day, training that would take up the entire evening. His intensive tutoring, designed to bring him up-to-date with all that he had neglected to learn about the important things in life while he was off wasting his time in the human world of his father, included the Elven language, archery, magic, meditation and the ways of the forest.

He stretched and stood up. He would have to hurry to finish his meal before he was expected in the Council Chamber. It was plain fare but filling, a thick vegetable soup and a large slice of bread. He ladled himself a large scoop full and sat cross-legged at one of the low tables in the communal meal room, ignoring the other diners and concentrating on his food. He hardly ever talked to his neighbours anyway. They didn't have much to talk to each other about. He kept his eyes down, barely even registering the presence of the outside world, enjoying his meal and counting down the time.

Eventually, a different messenger appeared. He stood up, leaving the bowl where it was, and allowed himself to be guided along the raised wooden walkways that separated chambers in elven homesteads from each other. He no longer feared the great heights that some of the higher balconies, usually the Government terraces, overlooked. Although they sometimes built wooden houses, many elven constructions were simply corridors, balconies and mezzanine floors placed strategically inside and around rings of massive trees. Elves did not approve of the destruction of nature but this did not mean they refused to cut down trees or hunt animals, as humans often mistakenly believed. To a race that spoke to trees and animals on a regular basis, that understood how little they actually understood or cared about their identities as individuals, their physical shells, the relation of one to the other and what kind of timescale this was happening in, or even in which direction time was flowing in, it didn't make sense to worry about individual trees or animals. Only the eventual fulfilment of the purpose to which the entire forest was put there, made any sense at all to a tree as a personal goal. It sounded like insanity, suicide, to Loryn, but he had been told that trees thought mortals were silly too. 

Taking off his shoes as a sign of respect, he walked silently into the Council chamber and knelt before the bench facing the Elders'. Three of the eight Elders were in session, two male and one female; a respectable number. It meant his concern was genuinely being addressed, but wasn't serious enough that it might accidentally lead to war if he said the wrong thing. Minor bureaucrats lined the lower benches around the parallel sides of the room. He spotted two wizards and a seer in the Council as well; specialists summoned to help deal with the matter in hand. He politely waited for the Elders to speak.

“ Eloryndisei Warsong,” began the Elder, “I trust you have eaten.”

He nodded, “I am prepared.”

“Yet you appear troubled.”

There was no point hiding anything from the eyes of an Elven Councillor, “I am homesick.”

“You share our lifespan, but your mind is more human than elven,” he said. Loryn was fifty years old, and yet he was barely a grown man in appearance, “Do you pine for humanity?”

He shook his head, “I pine for Ishmeria.”

“No land can ever be a sanctuary to you as much as your homeland, but remember that our doors are always open to you,” he said kindly, “We have long been at peace with the Lodge within Norwood Forest. All elves are bound to offer sanctuary to any of their number without a home, if they are from a peaceful Lodge, or can prove that they were outcast from their Lodge and personally mean us no harm. This includes you, child of Lorelei Riversong, of the Court of Arial Stormsong. You have as much claim to our sanctuary, whether or not you consider yourself one of us. Do you understand why?”

“Out of respect and gratitude to my mother and Lady Arial?” 

He shook his head, “Because our oracles have seen you in a vision since you were born. The Elven Prince of the Human Lands. We knew that you would protect the forests from the flames of war. And protect our home you did. The Elves were not harmed, even though we did not join the warring.”

“And yet, I ultimately failed you,” he said, his head bowed, “It was Terian and Ander between them who saved that isle from doom, not I. Mostly Terian.”

“The ultimate victory was not to be yours, no. We cannot all fight dragons. But that does not change the fact that you held Norwood until the very end, when the war was fading, and was fought mostly in the south. And now there has been an Elven ruler, there can be others. That is how Ishmerian law works, yes?”

He nodded, “I suppose. Although, I wish I could have made sure. You know, with children. And actually winning a few battles.”

“Your life is not yet over, Loryn. There may yet be many, many children. Just because there are not grand prophecies written about them, does not mean they won't happen,” he smiled at the thought, “And there have been further visions of you. Alive.”

“I know. I also had the dreams,” he said, “I thought they were just nightmares of battle. I didn't know they were portents. My spirit is weak. Had I been a soothsayer I would have seen Garth's armies coming – Garth, of all people! - and not been too busy watching Erin and Ander. And, if I were a mighty wizard, I would have struck him down from the walls with lighting bolts myself...”

“You will return to Ishmeria, Loryn.”

“Then I am going to die. I would be killed on sight. They have guards, and ships patrolling their seas. If there are Wyverns involved, I am not going by Gryphon. What other way is there?”

“That, we do not know. All we know is, Ishmeria is in danger again, and you will return to save your homeland. It has been seen in the Prophecy.”

“Do you have any idea what kind of danger? All I saw was a wyvern, darkness and flames. That could mean any number of things... nothing good, but still...”

“The danger is in the Crown,” said the Oracle suddenly, her frail voice distant. She was young in Elven terms, maybe even human terms, her gift having bloomed early. Loryn could tell that the prophecy was addressing him directly, using her voice only as a channel, “And in the time left. And in the order you did it in.”

“Not again,” he sighed, burying his head in his hands, “Please don't let them have started this foolishness again.”

“This is a new era, Prince Loryn, and a new danger. The same tactic will not work twice,” she said, “If it ever worked the first time.”

“If I couldn’t even get it right the first time, what hope do I have now I’m alone in exile?”

“Learn from experience,” she said, “And thank the Spirits you have been given a second chance.”

* * *

A Voyage from Vermilion to Erion

“It was nice of the Captain to let us on board for a reduced fare,” said Garth, “He must have sympathised with the urgency of our cause and recognised us as the unsung saviors of Ishmeria.”

“Didn't he say something like 'oh God, its the deadbeat losers again, if I let you on board, will you be quiet and not try and stow away in the packing crates again'?” pointed out Eadric.

“He was just trying to draw attention away from us, in case there are spies watching,” explained Garth, taking another swig of the fresh bottle of absinthe, “He's very kind and sensitive like that.”

“He didn't even let us buy a return ticket,” said Leander, bending down to retrieve Burgundy from the coil of ropes he was trying to nest inside before he chewed through something he shouldn't and destroyed the sails or something. Dragonettes weren't adapted for sea travel; the swaying and the lack of solid ground was making the little reptile nervous and hyperactive. He was considering locking him in his cage. It would make him grumpy but at least he wouldn't get lost or annoy anyone, “It was a mean way to say it as well: 'aren't you lot supposed to be doing without return tickets, anyway?'.”

“I thought it was very poetic,” said Lars, “And so was the reply you gave him. It didn't help our chances of getting a better discount, though.”

“I know. I shouldn't have held back quite so much,” said Leander.

Eadric leant on the rails and sighed as he looked out over the vast expanse of glittering blue-green. The sea was calm and the weather pleasant. While they wouldn't make the fastest progress, they were in no danger of running into a storm. A fine sea-spray cooled the air. It beat the view from the balcony of Vermilion's cheapest inn. However, it made him all the more melancholy; he could see firsthand how maddeningly far away from Ishmeria's shores he was, and that his life was no longer in his own hands. Surrounded by the incomprehensible vastness of the sea, he could not escape his own mortality. And the sun, blazing so gloriously, unable to understand or care that its warmth could never bring him happiness outside Ishmeria's walls. 

“For me,” he told the softly whispering waves, “The sun has already set.”

“And all that is left, is to pass through the night,” finished Lars, “You're getting better at this.

“Thank you. It makes something I'm good at.”

“You do know Ishmeria is that way, right?” he pointed behind him at the opposite deck. 

Eadric sunk his head into his hands, letting out a sigh of utter despair.

“Just kidding,” said Lars.

“That wasn't funny,” he glared at his amused companion.

They stared out to sea together, until even the hypnotic majesty of the waves grew tiring, whereupon they retired to their bunks, which weren't really all that more uncomfortable than their beds in the inn. Garth and Leander had managed to scrounge some rum from the crew, and were entertaining themselves with some kind of card game while Burgundy slept wrapped around Leander's shoulders. They didn't need as much sleep as their younger companions and didn't want to split the rum four-way. Eventually, even they fell asleep, Leander snoring like a band-saw stuck halfway through a tree. 

All four of them were taken by surprise when they were awoken by running and yelling, the rumble of cannons being rolled, and the cries of 'battle stations!'.


	5. Leviathans

Lars had already drawn his blade and he heard the 'click' of the safety catch being released on Leander's crossbow. The excited lizard perched on his shoulder and hissed, displaying his pearly violet crest fronds. The exiles ran out of their cramped cabin and were almost run over by a cannon.

“Pirates!” cried the sailor in response to Lars' inquiry. Four men with cutlasses and a man with a torch ran behind him. They stared over the rail; rapidly bearing down upon them was a huge ship, armour plated and bristling with cannons, its black sail embroidered with a skull and crossbones above a blue horizontal bar studded with five white stars, and below that, a black thistle. The figurehead was a wyvern, painted blood-red, its leering fangs so lifelike that they seemed about to devour the smaller ship.

“Oh, merciful Dullahan, I never imagined she'd be the first of us to go completely insane,” whispered Eadric.

“You four! Below decks NOW!” roared the Captain, his own saber brandished above his head, “This is one battle you're not to lose for everyone!”

“Captain! We think we know this pirate!” replied Lars, “If you'd give us the chance to parley...”

“What? You know PIRATES? I've been harbouring accomplices to pirates on board this ship? What have you led us into, you... you harbingers of doom! Out with it, or I'll cut your mangy heads off here and now!” he roared, pointing the tip of his blade at Lars' throat.

“Um...” replied Lars, the extent of his ability to negotiate in a crisis situation straining at its limit. Just then, a cannonball whistled through the air towards them. They threw themselves to the deck and the deadly projectile flew over their heads, landing with a sick crunch, tearing a hole in the deck and narrowly missing the mast.

“I don't mean to always end up in battles I can't possibly win,” Garth sulked as he crawled across the deck. The battle had begun in earnest now; their ship's cannons had fired their own answering volley, while their crew, which suddenly looked pitifully small, loaded their muskets and waited for the pirate ship to move in close enough for them to fire. 

“They're moving in for the capture,” said Eadric, “They'd have torn us apart by now otherwise.”

Sure enough, the pirate ship lowered its boarding plank as it moved within range. The pirates, who had been exchanging musket fire, dropped their guns and drew cutlasses, running onto the ship and screaming in wild abandon as they locked swords with the remaining defenders. Determined to prove to the Captain that he was at least some use in a fight, Lars ran into the fray, cutting down two pirates one after the other with the powerful swings of his sword. His face was a mask of ferocity, the constant pain and frustration in his heart transformed in a second into frenzied battle-rage.

“Coryll!” he bellowed, “Coryll and the Isle!”

“TORDIN! TORDIN!” came the retort. The men to either side of him crumpled to the ground, clutching their shattered ribcages as musket balls tore through their chests. When the choking smoke cleared enough for him to see, a slim, feminine figure walked slowly towards him, her gait like a prowling panther. She wore leather armour over a faded green jerkin, and had tied her flowing blonde curls into an elaborate set of ringlets to keep her hair out of her face in battle, but otherwise she was unmistakeable. In each hand she wielded a short sword with the confidence of one born into battle, and her face was awash with something almost like serenity.

“You were right,” Lars whispered to Eadric, who had appeared behind him, a cutlass in his hand, clearly appropriated at some point in the battle from someone who no longer had need of it.

“Don't you see? That's what our dreams were warning us about!” he replied, pointing up at the fearsome beast on the figurehead, “The Wyvern! This is the doom that will befall Ishmeria!”

“Really? Gweyn?” Lars ran his free hand through his long golden hair in a nervous gesture.

“What are you fools whispering about?” demanded Gweyn, “Do you intend to fight me and die a pointless death protecting something you don't care about, or surrender and join me in my glorious return?”

“Gweyn! What a lucky coincidence that we met like this! We've got a very important message for you!” yelled Leander, extricating his pet pseudodragon from its firm grip on a pirate's wooden leg. While she couldn't breathe fire like her larger cousins, she was vicious when she sensed hostility towards her master. Raised from an egg Leander bought when he managed to stray into the Goblin Market, she was fiercely loyal to him.

“Do not talk disrespectfully to Captain Gweyn Tordin, Pirate Queen of the Black Thistle!” bellowed a heavy-set pirate with a broad, stupid-looking face and a mop of brown curls. He looked to be Gweyn's second-in-command, and had been yelling orders to the pirate army as they stormed the ship and surrounded the crew. Out of the corner of his eye, Lars saw that the battle had quickly gone downhill. 

“Silence, Lenne! These people are old friends of mine! Provided they surrender, they will be shown the utmost of respect at all times. Tie the crew up in the hold, we'll sell them for ransom when we're next on the mainland. Make sure all the cargo goes into the hold – anybody found pocketing any of the booty for themselves goes overboard!”

“Ach, we surrender!” said Leander, dropping his crossbow.

“What are you doing, you madman? Who knows what horrors Gweyn is planning to inflict upon us?” said Eadric, “Don't you plan to heed the warnings in the dream at all? She will bring Armageddon down upon us all!”

“We're doomed if we fight anyway, and Gweyn is one of the people we're supposed to be delivering the letter to,” said Garth, “Its okay. We can always sacrifice Eadric if she wants a pretty boy to satisfy her depraved appetites.”

“Say that again and I'll retract the deal!” said Gweyn. Eadric gave him a dark look as well as they crossed over to Gweyn's ship under the beetling gaze of Lenne.

* * *

The Pirate Ship Black Thistle

The pirates had already begun to haul crates and barrels onto their ship, singing a drunken victory chant. Despite their rowdiness, they were fairly well organised; the deck of the Black Thistle was clean and tidy, the well polished weapons were readily at hand, the crew were efficient at transporting the booty into the hold. None of them were thrown overboard by Lenne, and Lars and his party were hustled below deck and into the Captain's Cabin. Erven sat behind a large desk, surrounded by scrolls, muttering to himself as he peered at a huge accounting ledger. Every now and then he sighed in annoyance and scribbled something in the margin.

“I may be the public face and Lenne the kind of authority that the men respect, but Erven here is the brains of the operation,” commented Gweyn.

The white-bearded old man looked up sharply, glaring at the intruders who had the gall to interrupt his book-keeping.

“Oh, so you managed to get them to take you up on your offer? Good, good...” muttered Erven, pulling out one of the scrolls and making a quick note.

“Make the gentlemen a cup of tea, Erven, don't be rude,” she ordered, “Do take a seat.”

“What do you plan to do to us?” demanded Eadric, “What 'offer' is this?”

“Have you not heard? Has the dread reputation of Pirate Queen Gweyn and the Black Thistle not reached these lands yet?”

“Um...” Eadric scratched his head again, “I don't think so. We're a little far away...”

“'A little far away'? Why, I am planning to spread a lot further out than this! Do not think that you are safe, even if you hide at the opposite end of the planet!” she thumped the table, knocking Erven's ink well over, “I shall muster the greatest pirate navy the world has ever known, and storm Ishmeria by force! I shall have my revenge on Terian for my unjust exile! Co-operate with me and you shall also return to Ishmeria, and I shall make you lords of your own independent nations!”

“Gweyn, while I don't fault for you for wishing to force your way back into Ishmeria... we all have, at some point... there are two flaws with your plan,” said Garth, “One, you would have to be willing to declare war on your own homeland. You would be the enemy of Ishmeria, like Eselred was. You might even be forced to damage Ishmeria or its people. At the very least, the people will suffer if the country is ruled by pirates. An exile who truly loves their country and longs to return would never do such a thing. Secondly, the situation has changed drastically since you were banished. Such extreme measures are no longer necessary. We have a letter with us, that should have been passed on to you as well. It is from our homeland.”

“Read it to me,” she ordered.

Leander dictated while they sat and sipped their tea and Erven furiously transcribed their conversation. The expression on Gweyn's face went from surprise, to fury, to an unreadable stony gaze.

“Brazen deceit!” she hissed, throwing it at Leander's face.

“Told you so,” said Lars, “Terian isn't really that nice.”

“No, not by Terian. By you! This is clearly not Terian's handwriting – Erven took many of our important documents with him into exile in case we had to submit them as evidence for Exile Benefits - and any idiot could forge a royal crest! Well, Erven can forge a royal crest... but that isn't the point! I've known for a long time I would meet up with you all, and if you say you've had the same dreams as me, you must have known of our meeting too!”

“What? We had the same dream?” 

“My dreams must be omens, telling me to unify the exiled Government of Ishmeria in order to take back our rightful homeland! The Black Thistle shall return to the Pirate Cove tonight... and we shall rally the fleet, and prepare for our invasion right away!”

“I thought they were prophecies of doom...” said Eadric.

“Not doom, Eadric. War,” said Gweyn, drawing one of her cutlasses.

“This is insane! Inviting war back to Ishmeria, after we struggled for so long to bring peace? You really are no better than Eselred!” snapped Garth.

“Did I ask you for your opinion? You have no authority on board my ship! You are my captives, and you shall co-operate or you will walk the plank! I have offered you a good price for your loyalty, and I mean to go by my word. But if you make trouble for me, I promise I won't hesitate to remove you!” she rang the bell that sat on the desk before her on a velvet cushion, “Lenne! Take them to the guest quarters and make sure they don't escape!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Why pirates?” asked Garth.

“Ishmeria is surrounded by sea on all sides, and incredibly badly defended at sea,” said Gweyn, “We don't have any aggressive neighbours, so all our conflicts have been internal. We've never had to waste money on a large navy. I knew as soon as I was banished that I wanted to return by force – I couldn't survive in exile without knowing that I had some kind of plan to return. I happened to talk to some of the other exiles on board – I was taken out of the game first, so I had nobody I knew on the boat with me apart from Erven and Lenne – and they were mostly genuine criminals, and so warmed easily to the idea of becoming pirates. Erven had some contacts in the world of tax fraud – you have to, to survive Eselred's style of heavy taxation – so he introduced me to the right people in the underworld. I have experience fighting and ruling, and I have a knack for sailing what with living in the extreme south of the country, so it seemed natural to become a Pirate Captain.”

“You should have thought of it first, Garth,” said Leander.

“I've told my story, even though I still can't trust you to co-operate with me at all. Why don't you return the favour?” she said, “What of these dreams that we all have? What do they really mean? You said you have also been working to bring us all together – where are the others?”

“I wish I knew,” sighed Lars, “And that's the honest answer to both questions.”

“We were on our way to meet Loryn when we were waylaid,” said Leander, “If you allow us to guide you, we can arrange for you to meet him. But only if you let us show him the letter.”

“Nobody will be able to read any letters if I kill you here and now! Don't try to make deals with me!” she snapped, “Do you really think I trust you enough to let you back on land?”

“You won't get anywhere if you don't try and negotiate with us at least a little,” said Garth, “We aren't going to go along with your plan. We are still honour bound to defend Ishmeria, whomever the foe, exiles or no. We respect that you could kill us easily, but it really makes no difference to us right now. We live to return to Ishmeria, and not to an Ishmeria that we have laid waste to and allowed a horde of pirates to pillage and rape!”

“Ishmeria will not be harmed. Instead, it shall be the new Pirate Cove, and all the treasures we have looted will be used to rebuild Ishmeria as soon as the war is over,” she said, “I even have plans to use Ishmeria as a base for further conquest. I rather like the sound of the title 'Empress'.”

“Terian also spoke of rebuilding Ishmeria. And at least he had no insane plans for world domination, or to turn Ishmeria into a den of sin and iniquity,” replied Garth.

“Your claims of knowing Terian's business again. All told to you by this mysterious, supernatural messenger?” her lips pursed into a mocking smile, “You'll have to think of better excuses than that if you do not wish to hang, once this ship returns to the harbour. I shall leave you to reflect upon this.”

They heard the click of the door's many heavy iron locks, then the thud of Lenne's footsteps as he ambled off down the corridor after his Captain.

* * *

“He follows Gweyn like a puppy,” commented Eadric, his voice dropping to a whisper in case the stupid man was actually bothering to listen in on them, “Wasn't he a Blanche? Why would he want to be her vassal? The Blanches were proud people!”

“Princess Gweyn was always well known for her silver tongue,” said Garth, “The families of Wenrock, Fouche and Burgundy simply surrendered to her for small amounts of money. I was not aware of her other... talents. And ambitions. She has changed. She is not the uncertain, besieged Southern noble we knew.”

“Our exile has changed us all,” said Lars, “I feel the creeping madness every day. It seems Gweyn has snapped. She really does speak like Eselred.”

“I feel like Princess Robyn, imprisoned in her castle,” said Eadric. He blinked, surprised at their stares, “... what?”

“If we put our minds to the task of escaping from our predicament, we will be too busy to go insane,” said Leander, “I have tried the door, the floorboards, the ceiling, but I cannot find a way to escape from this cell. I suppose we could try and trick Lenne into letting us out...” 

“Where would we go? We're miles from any shore!” said Garth, “We'd never overpower everyone on the ship, and if we sneaked off the ship, we'd only end up drowning.”

“I shall challenge Gweyn to a duel!” announced Lars suddenly. Now it was him that received the odd looks, “I'm the best fighter amongst us, and I think there's a rule in the Pirate's Code that says the Captain has to accept a duel, and if I win, I get to be Captain.” 

“Even if you could beat Gweyn in a duel – and I personally doubt it - we can't just start fighting each other!” said Garth.

“We have no reason not to make war with Gweyn. We've delivered the message to her, like we promised. She's not listening. We can't carry on with our mission until we get off this ship, and most importantly,” he said, “She's a threat to Ishmeria! LENNE! I have a message for that harpy you call a leader!” 

He roared until he was hoarse and thumped on the door until a rather nasty splinter was embedded in his hand.

“The idiot's wandered off,” said Garth, while Lars sucked at his hand and used several choice Coryll dialect curses, “I would have thought he was at least intelligent enough to guard a door properly, if he can work as a first mate on a ship...”

Leander put a finger to his lip and shushed them loudly. He pushed Lars out of the way and pressed his ear against the door, “There's some kind of commotion...”

Now that they had fallen into dead silence, the others could hear it too; yelling and running that sounded a little too frantic for the crew of a busy ship, even a pirate ship. Soon, the unmistakeable sound of weapons being drawn added to the chaos. They silently prepared themselves for trouble. Their weapons had been taken from them but Lars was fairly sure he could do someone an injury with a snapped-off table leg. Leander grabbed Burgundy and stored him away in his cloak pocket; the little dragonette was randomly hissing at the far corner of the room.

Suddenly, they heard another sound, much louder than the rest. It sounded like creaking wood, or maybe an enormous wave, or the roar of a giant beast. Then the world around them exploded. They were thrown back against a wall as the wood buckled and splintered, before shattering beneath a jet of water that punched a hole through one side of the ship and out the other, throwing it over on its side. Lars managed to grab hold of something, he wasn't sure what, to steady himself, narrowly avoiding the sharp splinters of wood flung at him. He didn't see what happened to any of the others; when he tried, the first wave of freezing cold sea water hit him. He braced himself against the plank he held onto, straining not to be dragged under the current. He heard the noise again, and recognised it for what it was, this time. Spluttering and shaking his hair away from his eyes, he looked up.

Only its reptilian head was visible, at the end of a powerful, sinuous neck, its tough hide a shimmering blue, its jaws wide enough to bite through the ship's hull and swallow him whole. Its dark eyes held an ancient intelligence, beyond that of an animal but just as cunning and savage when it was enraged. 

The Pastha.

It had come to defend its seas.

Lars opened his mouth to scream, letting go of the plank with one hand so he could wave madly, praying that the beast knew he was about to die, and cared about him, now he was an exile, not an Ishmerian. The great serpent opened its mouth too; not in answer, but to draw water up into its throat in preparation for its most feared ability; to fire targeted torrents of water at its enemy at speeds that would tear apart any ship, or, for that matter, most Dragons.

It could not target the flow precisely enough to avoid hitting a couple of insignificant human stragglers.

Lars closed his eyes and prayed to any spirit of Ishmeria that would still listen to him to spare his worthless life.


	6. Sanctuary

_“The Pastha awoke last night.”_

_The voice was hard as stone, the speaker's fingers digging into the velvet-padded arm of the chair with barely suppressed rage, the other tightening around a crystal goblet filled with some unknown potion._

_“I felt it too, while I was scrying all through the night.”_

_“If the Pastha is restless, the Dragon must still be alive somewhere.”_

_“I could not detect its presence. A Dragon would be a huge magical energy signature. The Pastha itself blinded me.”_

_“And the Flame Ruby remains within Gemfire. The Crown lies silent. The gems cannot be freed. I cannot even place my hands upon it any more.”_

_“It could be the Pastha's doing, or some side-effect of the Reunification. Or maybe the Crown simply no longer answers to...”_

_The speaker was cut off mid sentence by a wave of agony that racked their body, crushing their chest and choking their lungs. They fell to their knees, clasping desperately at their chest._

_“Sorry,” the speaker gasped, “Mercy. Please...”_

_An indulgent smile flashed across the lips of the first speaker. who placed the glass to their lips and took a sip. The second speaker fell to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut._

_“The Crown has been tampered with,” whispered the first speaker, “Find all who have come into contact with it during the coronation. All who may have touched it, or even been alone in the same room as it. Get the truth out of them, no matter what it takes.”_

_“As you wish, Great Lady.”_

_“That is better. The Crown will answer to me, and to me only. And if the Dragon will no longer awaken... it is only a matter of time before the other seal weakens.”_

* * *

_  
“Are you sure you're feeling okay?”_

_“I have a massive headache,” he said, his voice confused and lost, his face blank, “What happened last night?”_

_“That's normal. We all have headaches,” replied Skulryk, wincing from the memory of the sudden, stabbing pain, “That was the Pastha's signature. Not only is it immensely powerful, it is designed as a failsafe in case we ever need to fight one of our own.”_

_“Did something go wrong?”_

_“To be honest, we were checking it wasn't you that attracted its attention.”_

_“I don't think there's anything wrong with me...”_

_“Could you report to the testing area anyway? We want to be extra sure.” he frowned and adjusted his moustache, “We thought the Pastha was on standby...”_

_“Can a Pastha malfunction?” Dragon rose from his chair and followed the wizard down the corridor._

_“Even Pluvius has never heard of it happening. Its a worrying thought.”_

_The man called Dragon – or, at least, it was the only name he ever remembered having been given – walked down the corridor, his hands in the pockets of his black tunic, wondering to himself whether he should tell Skulryk about the dream. His son had told him not to tell the other Wizards of the Order, that his memories would be taken away from him again. But some of the other things sounded like Skulryk really needed to hear about them; for instance, that it was not the Isle the Pastha protected, or Dragons it hunted.  
_

* * *

_  
“The sea is uneasy around the Isle,” she told him, her voice like the whisper of the waves. He watched in awe of the ethereal vision that floated above his bed; her serene beauty, outlined by a blue glow, her ageless eyes, the way her hair and blue robes flowed of their own accord. Visions of the Fey Queen of Norwood Forest were rare blessings, and he never expected to see such a thing outside Ishmeria, “It is not a storm I can calm.”_

_“My mother... is she well?”_

_“Our people live, but there is trouble in the forests. Someone is reaching out to the forbidden magic, things that no mortal, even a King, may summon. The blood of Forest Guardians has been used in profane rituals, and things that were sealed in dark places smell its scent.”_

_“Great Lady, please, I would lay down my life to defend your forests but I have no way to return to Ishmeria…”_

_“There is a small island between Erion and Vermilion, shrouded by mist and sacred magic. I can guide you there, keep the way open, but only for one night. Your brothers will greet you there.”_

_“I doubt my ‘brothers’ will ever ‘greet’ me in this life or any other.”_

_“You must, or Ishmeria is lost. Now, fly!”_

_“Great Lady… I saw a Wyvern…”_

_“Then you have less time than I thought you did! Awaken! Fly!”_

_Loryn woke up and ran straight to the Gryphon aviary.  
_

* * *

The Sea Temple

Lars was in no pain as he floated inside the ghostly orb that glowed the colour of the moon and conveyed him up through an immeasurably vast blackness. Although he could see his hands and was dimly aware that they still belonged to him, still moved at his command, he could not feel his body and barely had energy or even motivation to move at all. His body felt so light that if the bobbing luminescent orb was a soap bubble, it would still carry him. The air was hushed, as though an authority that could not be denied had commanded silence, and he could do little apart from watch and wait. He wondered if this was what death was like, this calm, ultimate surrender as his soul was transported through oblivion to its afterlife. He had never paid attention to the castle priest – he only had patience for concrete, immediate threats such as dragons trying to kill him – and so had absolutely no idea what the eventual fate of his soul would be, whether there was a deity at the other end of the tunnel who would read his sins out, whether they would be merciful with him about the fact that his life had been an unending series of failures and he had caused the deaths of thousands, what kind of counter-arguments would sound most convincing to an Infernal Judge who had no doubt heard it all before. As he drifted through nothing, he only regretted that he couldn’t fulfill his one wish, to die on Ishmerian soil.

_Actually, you are now directly underneath Ishmeria._

Just as the realisation was sinking in that a disembodied voice was speaking to him inside his head after having just read his thoughts, the light grew brighter until he could see that he floated, not in the void between this world and the next, but in a vast underground cavern. It appeared natural, its walls rough, barnacle-infested and shaped in the patterns that the water had gradually eroded over spans of time that humans could not think in. However, the altar in the centre of the chamber, a single slab of rune-carved stone with eight massive steps leading up to it, was as smooth as marble. The detail carved into the stone was intricate to the point of seeming delicate, yet it was untouched by tide or time. Maybe a master craftsman working for years on end could have carved such beauty, yet the alien nature of the words and scenes on the stone told Lars that the creators were not human.

As the initial wonder at the lonely majesty of the scene wore off, Lars gradually became aware that he was not alone. He spotted his companions, each contained within their own glowing spheres, as well as Gweyn, a frightened-looking Lenne, a surprisingly unimpressed-looking Erven, and others who had not been on the boat with them. Loryn rode on some kind of flying creature, Ander and Erin, swords drawn, fixed each other murderous glares every now and then but not for long enough to entirely take their eyes off the altar. To his disgust, he saw Erik standing there in full armour, a huge axe at his belt. So, he thought with a hint of grim humour, at least I’ve established this can’t be Heaven.

 _You are not dead_ , said the voice, _I have healed your wounds, just as I protect you now, so that you do not drown._

 _Who are you?_ He could not move his lips to speak but as he thought the words, he immediately received a response.

_Look to the altar._

Lars gazed over at the stone edifice. A man lay on the altar. Floating as he was halfway between the floor and the ceiling, he could not see any of his features in detail, only that he wore a blue tunic. As soon as he thought of this, feeling the accompanied irritation, the sphere propelled him closer to the ground. That was when he saw the man’s youthful, serene face, his eyes closed as if asleep, his short-cropped, messy straw-blonde hair and the crown insignia on his tunic.

It was Adryl.


	7. Revelations

_I believe you have a message for me. No need to read it. I already know what it says. And I know you’re as confused as the others. You’re wondering what I’m doing here, if I’m friend or foe, and also whether I’m asleep, or enchanted, or dead. The answer is somewhere in-between the three. I would not be alive if I were not here. I took grievous wounds in battle, I was treated harshly by my captors and I would not have made the journey into exile. Now I am neither alive nor dead. You could say I am dreaming. And, yes, there is magic here. The oldest, strongest magic of all; that of Gemfire. Just as I felt my life slipping away, I found myself here. I cannot die, and this place is protected by the Pastha. I apologise for its attack on your boat. It sensed Gweyn’s hostile intent towards Ishmeria, and your ship was drifting too close. The bad magic in the air has made it rather paranoid of late._

_It’s a good job that the stupid cow didn’t actually try and invade Ishmeria by sea,_ he thought, _how could she forget that there was a bloody great sea serpent guarding the island?_

_Many people are unaware that the Pastha is still awake. When Gemfire was reunited, the Pastha should have returned to its lair here, to sleep eternally. Now it cannot sleep, for there is no true peace._

_What’s happening in Ishmeria now? Can’t Terian even look after it for five minutes without the whole place falling apart?_

_Prince Lars, I thank you for your concern, and your kindness. I can tell from your thoughts that you truly intended to bring that message to me, even though I am your enemy’s son. I have already read out your message to everyone in the room. I could not wake you up, as your wounds took the longest to heal. Now everyone is awake and attentive, I have a message of my own for all of you._

_You have guessed by now that the threat to Ishmeria’s peace did not end with Eselred’s overthrow. The Crown is reunited, yes, and the Dragon tamed. Not dead, you understand, but it can be said to serve Ishmeria. But the problem was, we were fighting the wrong battle all along. I should have known. It was my own father. And my own sister,_ Adryl’s voice was suddenly tinged with unbearable sadness. Lars was surprised how much emotion could be portrayed by disembodied words. He even thought he heard the twinge of a Lankshire accent, _I fought my own father, Lars. I would have killed him. And I never even thought about what my sister might have been doing, alone, in the shadows of the Tower. And then, when she was freed, when there was nobody left to watch her except Terian. A great man, but he cannot watch every corner of Ishmeria on his own, and he cannot know what my sister is capable of. Lars, my sister is evil. She was responsible for every single thing that lead up to the war, from the day she deliberately pried the Gems from the Crown – the Crown that would only ever be held by the Lankshire family who swore to protect it for all of time._

_Are we talking about the same Princess Robyn?_

_Queen Robyn now. King Terian died of sudden heart failure in the middle of a meal he had taken in his private chambers, with the Princess. No traces of poison were found. Magic doesn’t leave traces. Not that she didn’t control everyone who conducted the investigation by that point. My sister had spent her days since leaving the Tower building up alliances within the Court of Londre, subtly manipulating the politics of Ishmeria so that she was almost entirely in control, ruler in everything but name, just as she had done every single day she was locked in the Tower, where no rivals could ever get at her._

_Then her father didn’t lock her in the Tower?_

_Oh, he did. At her request. She has always manipulated Father, as well as the rest of our family. At first she advised her father on all matters, building him up as an invincible ruler, uncontested on the battlefield. Then she slowly destroyed him. He gradually became a weaker ruler, and a much crueller tyrant. She wanted him hated, then she wanted him to lose just enough battles that everyone in Ishmeria thought they had a fighting chance. In short, she wanted to start a war. She wanted her every rival in Ishmeria, including her own family, to kill themselves off in pointless bloodshed, or to be banished where they could not possibly reach her in time before she had complete control over Ishmeria._

_I…_ Lars hardly knew what to say. It sounded completely insane. Compared to the rest of the madness of the Ishmerian Civil War, however, it wasn’t really that implausible. Everyone had betrayed everyone else. Why should Princess Robyn be an exception? She was no flawless angel, and it had been true that she set free the Dragon in full knowledge of the consequences of her actions, _How do you know all this?_

_I find out everything she does. It is… difficult to explain. I am a Lankshire, one of the few remaining who genuinely serve the Crown. We are deeply connected to each other, as we are to Gemfire and to the land itself. We are meant to work as one. Up until now, Robyn has been so strong that she blocked us all off. I had thought I could not communicate with my sister because my father sealed off my powers when he disowned me. Now the balance of power has changed. You see, Robyn does not have Gemfire. My father has Gemfire, and he has taken it back where it belongs._

_You know where Eselred is? What do you mean, he has Gemfire?_

_On that fateful day when Prince Terian invaded Londre, my father vanished in the heat of battle. It was said that he hurled himself from the walls in disgrace, but his body was never found. Three days after that had happened, I started dreaming of my father. He had completely lost his memory. I knew there was something else very different about him. He wasn’t weak or feeble-minded any more. He didn’t even seem human. I began visiting him in more dreams, talking to him, and I discovered what had happened: he had been chosen as a replacement for the Dragon. A Gem Wizard._

_Who ‘chose’ him? What could possibly make them think Ishmeria needed a new Dragon, or that he was the best person for the role?_

_On that battlefield, my father had redeemed himself. He fled his castle and took the Crown with him – not to keep for himself, but to give directly to the Gem Wizards. He must have broken Robyn’s control over him, or else the Wizards had managed to find a loophole in their contract with Robyn and arranged the delivery themselves. By the time Terian entered the castle, the Crown had already been repaired and the seals replaced – in a way that Robyn could not break, or control Gemfire in any way, ever again. The ownership of Gemfire had been taken out of human hands, sealed in an eternal loophole; Gemfire was a part of Ishmeria, the ruler was a part of Gemfire, and Gemfire was part of the ruler.  
_  
 _This caused problems in itself,_ continued Adryl, _the Gem Wizards have broken their own strict law of non-interference in mundane human affairs by exposing not only a human, but a ruler, to the mysteries of Ishmeria. The Wizards were eventually an order created to serve in the background, as bureaucrats, messengers, scribes, doctors and priests, maintaining Ishmeria without ruling. This is the second time they have broken their vows. The first time was not their fault. Robyn physically damaged the Crown, and so corrupted the magic contained within it. They were flawed beings when they manifested fully; they became weapons of war, when they were designed to preserve order, peace and learning. They still never forgave themselves. Now they have had to break their laws of their own will. There is only way that they can redeem themselves, and it is almost as terrible as the crime they committed in the first place. They took my father’s memories away, and most of his free will. He does not only have their powers; he is almost entirely as they are. He does not exist any more except to serve._

_I sense your thoughts; you believe that my father deserves his fate, but you are trying to suppress the thought in order to avoid upsetting me. I am near death, Lars. Physically, mentally and emotionally, I have taken all the damage I can possibly take. I am like my father. I exist only because I must, in order to stop my sister. I tell my father what he needs to know, so that the Gem Wizards do not take away everything that he was, and I keep my sister from finding out what she mustn’t know. The Pastha has allowed me to bring you all together and speak with you all. I don’t have the power to take you to Ishmeria or to give you any magic powers to stop my sister; it is hard enough to maintain what balance exists in Ishmeria at all. All I can do is tell you what you need to know, and implore you to forget your differences and bring peace back to my isle. I don’t even care what happens to the Lankshire family. There’s nobody left in our entire family who is even human._

_What is it you need us to do? I can’t go in there with an army. I don’t have one, and if I did, I’m not exactly the best tactician in the world. I take it we can’t even use the Gems any more. We’d just be marching to our deaths._

_There are forces in Ishmeria other than the Gems. If you’re going to stand a chance against my sister, you’ll need to get them before she does. And she knows about them. She’s looking for them right now._

_What forces?_

_The magic that is not controlled by Gemfire. The magic of the Elves. The artifacts, such as the Scroll of Wisdom and the Sword of Victory. And the Princess Crown,_ said Adryl.

_Princess Crown?_

_There have always been two crowns. It was once fairly common knowledge, but it has been lost in the mists of time, and the Wizards refuse to allow information to be distributed about it, in case someone found it and attempted to use it against Lankshire. Its power has been sealed away with far stronger locks than even Gemfire. If anyone among us would have heard of it, it would be Garth._

Lars turned to the older man, expecting some kind of reaction, but Garth clearly had as little control over his body as Lars did. He must have been badly injured in the shipwreck. He was tough for his age, and hadn’t been caught in as strong an impact as Lars, but he was still too old to be adventuring on the High Seas. He also idly wondered how Adryl was talking to everyone at once but keeping their conversations entirely separate from each other. He knew he could not have coped with the clamour of so many voices in his head – even the one voice felt uncomfortable – and wondered how Adryl put up with it.

 _The Pastha’s mind is actually handling most of the work, just as it keeps me alive,_ he explained, _But that is no concern of yours. Until very recently, there have been two crowns, because there have been two nations. Lisle has not always been part of Ishmeria._

_I heard that story from Garth once. The weather was too bad for the Island to be conquered, or something. But why does it have its own version of Gemfire?_

_It is not the same as Gemfire. Rather than an organised council of seven Wizards, it merely contains the souls of several magical creatures that already exist on both islands – a tribe of Goblins, an army of Skeletons, a flock of Gargoyles, an Ogre, a Bugbear, a Banshee and the Wyvern._

A shiver ran down Lars’ spine at the mention of the Wyvern, _Why would anyone want to summon such evil creatures?_

_Not evil, Lars, just dangerous. These creatures were meant to be used for very different purposes than Gemfire. The crown was meant firstly so that there would be any way to control the creatures at all, and secondly as a good will gift to Lisle, following the wedding._

_A… wedding?_

_Why do you sound so surprised? Lisle and Ishmeria were eventually united through marriage. Lisle’s ruler was traditionally female, hence the name ‘Princess Crown’. My great grandmother was from Lisle. Not a Chrysalis – Garth’s family was a noble house left behind to guard Lisle while the Princess stayed in Londre, where it was warmer! Anyway the powers of the Crown were no longer needed, as Ishmeria was not considered hostile to Lisle, and it was replaced by a normal Crown while the original was hidden under the mountains of Lisle. However, when Princess Robyn damaged Gemfire, the magical backlash not only disrupted the weather in Lisle and drove the animals berserk, it damaged the Princess Crown!_

_This had three effects during the war: the monsters sealed within the Crown went wild, Garth took things the wrong way and invaded Ishmeria, and the Crown became detectable again. Not easily detectable – which is why Robyn has only just found out that it even exists. She is close to it, though. She will find it, soon. And she can use it – there is enough Lisle blood in the current generation of Lankshires. Once she does find it, she will be able to control the monsters. There’s no telling what she’ll do with them!_

_Attack the Gem Wizards, maybe?_

_There’s a possibility she might try and break it again and let the magic loose. The effect will be the same as that of breaking Gemfire and less controllable. Whatever she’s up to, I need you to stop her. There will be a short window of time before she will be able to do anything with the Princess Crown, even if she does find it. It is sealed with stronger bonds, so she won’t be able to just pry the gems out with a knife. If you hurry, you can take it off her. But only if you all join forces and don’t fight amongst yourselves._

_It all sounds so incredulous,_ said Lars, _but if I return to Ishmeria I can see for myself. And I agree that we have a small fighting chance if we join forces. As for the magic of Ishmeria, well, the Pastha is proof that it still exists. But if Erik stabs me in the back on the journey there, or Terian shoots me dead with a crossbow the moment I step off the boat, I’ll return to haunt you._

_I suspect I will die before you. Please don’t prove me wrong._

_I’ll try my best,_ promised Lars, _if only for the story about Garth’s people. I’m going to be laughing at him about it for days._


	8. Voyage

The Pirate Ship ‘Blanche’s Revenge’

“Well, it isn’t like I wrestled it or anything,” explained Leander, flagon of ale in one hand, feeding dried jerky to Burgundy with the other, while Erin inspected his collection of bear pelts, a look of grudging respect on his face, “I set a trap for it, then shot it when it was trying to get its foot free. I know it’s a little dishonourable, but it’s a bear. They’re not exactly going to reciprocate if I treat them chivalrously. Not that the forest doesn’t have its own rules I have to respect, of course…”

“… Well, yes, Elven girls are beautiful but its an artificial beauty. They tend to all end up looking the same. They may not all be a model of loveliness, but give me an honest human girl any day….” 

“What kind of human girl?” demanded Erik.

“Um…” Loryn blushed, “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on! It’s a simple question! What kind do you prefer? Cobridge girls? Petaria girls? Lisle girls?”

“What are you saying about Lisle girls?” yelled Garth. Eadric quickly moved on, praying that Erik hadn’t started another war with his brash, loud ways before they were even off the boat, after Adryl had tried so hard to get them together and keep the peace. Their journey had been largely uneventful and they had mostly been occupied with catching up with each other’s stories of their lives in exile. Even though they were all natural enemies, they didn’t really have anyone else in the world they knew, and for now at least, they all had a common goal. Garth had devised a clever strategy to keep all the bitterest rivals apart from each other by steering the conversations so that they all had someone to talk to who they were fairly neutral towards, preferably on the opposite end of the ship to said rivals. Eadric had volunteered to help patrol the ship. He was pleased to see Erin and Ander engaged in separate conversations. Lars was also nowhere near Erik; he had spent all morning staring over the rail, arms folded, then went below deck to talk to Erven when the elderly scribe summoned him.

Erven had mostly kept to himself but was occasionally calling people into the room he had appropriated as his office to speak to them privately. Now he was talking to Gweyn, his leader and the Captain of the ship. It was Erin’s ship but, as he explained to them, he had been working for Gweyn as a mercenary for a while now, in exchange for regular pay, his own ship and a promise of return to Ishmeria at some point in the future. He had visited the island that was the only entrance to the Temple against Gweyn’s orders because he had heard rumours that Ander was there and he wanted to settle their vendetta away from Gweyn’s prying eyes. He had been moody ever since he had been admonished and ordered to keep his personal grudges for later, once they had finished their ultimate goal. The irony was not lost on Eadric; Gweyn’s plan was as senseless as the Lyle-Blanche rivalry, and had any of them seen sense and just made an alliance right at the beginning, one that they hadn’t broken at the first opportunity, they wouldn’t have all lost the war in the first place. Ander, meanwhile, was telling Lars the story of how he came to the Temple.

“… and that’s when I saw the advertisement on the notice board,” said Ander, “It said ‘A mysterious light has been sighted over the Sea Temple Cave. Previously it has been impossible to reach the small island but local fishermen claim it is now possible but dangerous – they saw a ship sink off the isle’s shore, attacked by some large sea creature. There are rumours of treasure and possible aquatic dragon slaying opportunities.’”

“A real adventurer,” said Lars, “That’s pretty impressive.”

“Well, we Lyles have a family tradition of the younger sons proving themselves by going on quests,” said Ander, scratching his head nervously, “It isn’t like I haven’t slain a monster or two before. Its kind of a relief to be doing something I’m good at, even though its lonely having to do it somewhere so far away from my family and friends.”

“We’ll be home soon, Ander,” said Eadric.

“Hey, are you okay?” asked Lyle’s Prince, looking over his shoulder.

“What d’you mean?”

“Well, isn’t Adryl your brother?” he asked, “It must’ve been hard for you. Your brother being near death, and telling you this story about your sister.”

“To be honest, I’d given up on ever being on good terms with my family,” Eadric said, “Whatever my brother said – and if I was going to believe a word any of them said, it’d be Adryl – it doesn’t make it alright. My father did a lot of bad things. If he had an opportunity to do so, he would have killed me without a second thought. He disowned me, you know. So I’m not even a real Lankshire.”

“Still, if it’d been Wulfen and Keyla, I don’t know what I’d have done,” said Ander. The entire Lyle family had followed their oldest brother into exile. Keyla sat on a crate, chatting to Wulfen about the everyday business of adventuring; which supplies they were running low on, what needed repairing, where they could look for more work.

“I’m kind of sad to hear that Terian’s dead,” said Lars, “I don’t quite think I can believe it. I didn’t think anything could get rid of Terian. He was always hiding somewhere, ready to appear behind you the moment you least expected it.”

“I had a nightmare like that,” admitted Eadric.

“He offered me an alliance once,” said Ander.

“I still say you should have taken it,” commented Keyla in an I-told-you-so voice.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” he yelled, “That would have made us ‘Tate and Lyle’! What kind of a stupid name for an alliance is ‘Tate and Lyle’?” 

“Pardon me, but may I call you all over for a strategy meeting?”

They all turned to look at Erven. Though soft-spoken, he caught everyone’s immediate attention. Under one arm he carried a bundle of scrolls. He walked over and laid a map of Ishmeria out over a nearby stack of crates.

“We’re not just going to be able to rush off the boat waving swords around and attacking everything that moves, no matter how much some of us might like to,” said Erven, indicating Erik’s immediate and enthusiastic reaction to the suggestion, “So I’ve been narrowing down the most strategically useful places to run whilst waving swords around and attacking everything that moves.”

He pointed to the map with his stylus, “Now, from listening to your stories, I gather that almost all of you were defeated in some incident involving Norwood – either attacking, defending, taking, holding, retaking or not noticing you had strayed into the Seventh Province.”

“It’s virtually impregnable!” complained Lars.

“It’s a forest, Lars…” Erven sighed, “Anyway, I agree with you that the place has something… unique about it. People who are not called Terian seem to meet with almost supernatural bad fortune while pursuing the just and noble cause of violating its sanctity.”

“It’s the Elven magic,” said Loryn.

“… yes. Which is exactly why you, the Elven Ambassador to Ishmerian humankind, were also defeated. By Garth,” he added, “But yes, I have been considering the possibility that there is a spell over the place. I believe that, like many locations of its kind, Norwood is the site of a magical artefact.”

“You mean, like the Scroll of Knowledge you found in Attley?” asked Gweyn.

He nodded, “Under normal circumstances I would have a search party sent to Norwood, but, ahem, I appear to be at less than optimum resources. I would appreciate it if a volunteer searches the Province for me. It would be an ideal place to start our campaign!”

“An excellent idea! Not only would the artefact give us an edge, if it exists, I would be able to ask my Elven contacts for aid!” said Loryn.

“Maybe it’s a magic sword,” said Ander, “I’ve always wanted to find me one of those.”

“At any rate, maybe Norwood’s strange aura would protect us from Robyn for a while,” said Lars.

“Norwood’s fairly close to Lisle,” said Garth, “If Adryl’s story is true, we’re going to have to head to Lisle and recover the Princess Crown before Robyn does,” his face darkened, “If only I’d known that thing was there in the first place…”

“Don’t worry, Garth, it probably isn’t,” said Eadric.

“Adryl did say she had probably already found it,” agreed Lars.

“I meant, it all sounds completely implausible,” said Eadric.

“But didn’t you just say…?”

“I said I was willing to believe that my sister betrayed everyone. I’m even willing to believe my father’s not dead. It sounds like just the sort of thing my family would get up to,” he said, “I’m willing to return to Ishmeria just to make sure someone has an eye on those two, just in case they’re plotting something. I’m going to find out what happened to my brother. I’m not helping you hunt after fairy tales. And if I step off the boat to find everything in order and Terian sat there, having no problems whatsoever, I’m going to just surrender myself to his judgment.”

“Eadric…” Lars reached out a hand to stop him, but Eadric slapped it away and wandered off below deck.

“What’s wrong with him?” asked Gweyn.

“He must be more worried about his family than he’s letting on,” said Ander.

“Leave him be,” said Erven, “If he’s going after the other Lankshires, it’ll put him closer to the Crown. And if Adryl’s story is true, Eadric will also be able to form a link with Gemfire. It might be our best chance at disrupting whatever Robyn’s doing.”

“But he could just be getting himself noticed more easily and killed faster,” said Lars, “Weren’t we all supposed to be doing this together?”

“This isn’t how we were meant to return,” Erin sighed and stared out over the rail.

“Don’t worry,” said Garth, “We’re not meant to return. But it never ended, either. So we weren’t really meant to leave. When it does end, that’s when we’ll know we really have to leave. For good, this time.”

“Garth… nobody understood a word of that,” Erven told him, “But it sounded reassuring. And none of us has anything better, so it’ll have to do for now.”

“We’ve got to keep our morale up,” agreed Ander.

It was the one thing the exiles could agree on. By the time Lenne saw the first faint speck of land through his spyglass, the rum had long run out, and all the poetry their muses could inspire in them had already been sung. For all their minds, fractured by long years of exile and muddled by far too much alcohol, could make out, the coast of Dunmoor could have been but a cruel mirage.  


* * *

Londre Tower Dungeons   
_  
“So, you have recovered it,” she whispered, “Bring it closer. I cannot see it properly, the way you hold it.”_

_“Great Lady, it is still not safe,” replied Karla, “I had to seal it behind a barrier, hide it from view so it couldn’t find out who held it in their hands. It was Griff who first picked it up, Lady, and Griff… My Queen, Griff is dead!”_

_“You allowed my Griff to die? My loyal guardian?” a dangerous hardness entered her voice._

_“I’m sorry, Your Majesty! I had no idea it was so dangerous just to hold it! It is far wilder magic than Gemfire…”_

_“Where is Griff’s body?”_

_“Interred in the Royal Crypt, Your Majesty. I had the ceremony performed immediately, so that nothing… untoward… would happen… you never know, with this kind of magic…”_

_“Untoward,” she repeated._

_Karla opened her mouth to speak, but the Queen snatched the object, wrapped in black velvet, out of her hands, before walking briskly down the corridor, not waiting for her vassal to keep up or even acknowledging Karla’s presence any more._

_“I am the only one with the authority to decide what magic is and isn’t allowed in my Kingdom,” she whispered, throwing the black veil to the floor. It made no sound as it fell.  
_


	9. Exhumation

Dunmoor Harbour

All was quiet as the ship entered the harbour. It seemed almost deserted. A mist had settled over the planks, which were beginning to rot, and the old watchtower creaked in the mournful wind. They had chosen the minor port because it was unlikely to attract much attention. It was the port used for banishment ceremonies, so it rarely had normal traffic – it wasn’t a good fishing spot, there were security restrictions on who could visit it and it was too small to be a useful place for trade – but it had more guards than the larger ports. Lars had expected to at least see the stagecoach service to the nearest town, maybe a small crowd of locals gathered to see if Terian was going to banish anybody today. Even during the war, there had been something happening; Ishmeria was too small a place for any region to be completely deserted. As he alighted from the ship, he couldn’t help but glance around him nervously. There was a sense of wrongness in the air. His danger senses were terrible at warning him in time, so he didn’t want to rely on them, but it would be foolish to ignore the feeling altogether. 

“Do you think they know we’re here?” whispered Garth. Lars put a finger to his lips and they walked silently down the dusty road, away from the forgotten harbour and the still, silent promenade. Gweyn and Erin’s crew were busy mooring the boat, so Lars had volunteered to lead a scouting party, mostly to give Ander something to do that was somewhere else.

Half a mile down the road, where the jagged cliffs began to give way to Lyle Country’s harsh moorland, Lars discovered the tiny wooden depot where the stagecoach made its terminus. It was boarded up and, from the state of disrepair it was in, hadn’t been open for a very long time. He shook his head.

Then he heard cries of alarm from back in the direction of the boat, followed by Erik’s furiously bellowed battle-cry and the ring of steel as his twin axes found their first victim. Unsheathing his own sword, Lars ran back down the path. He jumped onto a boulder and used the vantage point to watch the battle; Erik was furiously laying into a figure in plate mail and a blue tabard. While he was nowhere near Erik’s ursine build, the other man had an air of tireless confidence about him as he parried every blow swung at him with almost mechanical efficiency. He wasn’t even backing down; in fact, as he riposted with broad strokes of his own longsword, he seemed to be driving Erik back. 

“That’s Griff!” whispered Ander. Lars recognised him as well, now; the blue tabard with the black emblem of the Lankshire crown above a spiked, closed gate and crossed keys. He had heard tales of the man’s prowess in battle but, watching him stand up to a berserk Erik without breaking a sweat, he realised that none of the stories were exaggerated. He was almost glad he had never gotten the opportunity to fight the man before Terian got between them and halted Lars’ advance permanently. Except that they were going to have to fight him now. Before he was promoted to Eselred’s elite, he had been one of Ishmeria’s most merciless border guards. Robyn knew they were coming after all. 

Suddenly, Erik’s left arm slipped for a moment, an error caused by exhaustion or lack of concentration, and Griff sprang at him, his sword cleaving in a wide arc that would have taken off the man’s head if a crossbow bolt from Leander hadn’t struck him through the chest at that moment, hurling him back. He rolled through the dust and landed back on his feet, already posed to meet Gweyn and Erin as they rushed him. They all moved to surround him; they were through being chivalrous. Honour was impossible to maintain when you were breaking the curfew on your exile. 

“Is he even human?” whispered Garth, “That’s clearly gone through his armour! He must be badly wounded! He doesn’t even look shaken!”

As if in answer to his question, Gweyn screamed and jumped back again, stamping her feet and hacking at something on the ground. Lars saw it as well; twisted, spindly shapes poking their way through the grimy sand. Bones. The skeletal remains of the dead were clawing their way out of their graves! So that’s what happened to all the guards. Lars felt slightly sick, and not just because of the sudden stench of decay.

He ran back down the path to aid the others but they were already retreating towards him. More skeletons rose with each second until they outnumbered the small band of exiles. Griff was more dangerous than all of them combined and he wasn’t alive either; Erik and Leander, keeping him occupied while Erin and Gweyn held off the skeletons so they could retreat, had dealt him at least five mortal wounds, none of which slowed his advance.

“This way!” Lars waved his arms at them as he ran across the moors, away from the cursed beach. He kept on running until he could no longer hear the clatter of bones or the thud of Griff’s armoured footsteps, until the panic all around him died down. Blood pounded in his head and his every muscle ached but he thanked whatever deities remained in Ishmeria that he was unharmed. He fell to the ground, gasping for breath. His vision was a blur; he could only just make out that the sand had been replaced with green, that he was out of danger. For now.

“Is everyone okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine but Erik took a few wounds,” said Gweyn.

“I’ll live,” Erik growled, uncomfortable with anyone exposing his weaknesses to his rival, “Where are we?”

“Looks like Petaria,” said Erin, “We’ve gone a bit off track. We’re not far, though.”

“What the bloody hell has gone wrong with Ishmeria? The walking dead? And look at the sky!” yelled Leander, pointing upwards, “Look at it! Full of bloody Gargoyles! No wonder nobody’s outside!”

Lars stared up at the sky. It would have been clear and blue, if it hadn’t been for the black shapes that dotted the view like ink blots on what should have been an idyllic portrait of the Ishmerian countryside. None of them were bird-shaped. Birds didn’t get that large, even birds of prey, although these shapes also prowled the sky as if lying in wait for the kill. He had seen Gargoyles before, of course. Small, manageable units that could be ordered to fly over enemy walls and drop soldiers screaming from the battlements. This was no organised regiment; neither were they few in number.

One of the shadows, high on the mountain peak, was far too large to even be a Gargoyle. 

“Head to the forest! We’ll be out of their reach!” cried Loryn.

“God only knows what’s in the forests!” exclaimed Leander.

“At least there’ll still be elves! Elves know how to deal with this sort of thing!” Loryn assured him.

“If you say so…” Leander muttered, clearly unconvinced.

“We mustn’t lose sight of our original goal!” said Lars.

“Lars, that’s not the way to the Forest!”

“Sorry… lost my way… it doesn’t look right…” he muttered to himself, scratching his head. He ran after Loryn but scanned the horizon for familiar landmarks, just so he could try and make sense of what he was seeing. Ishmeria was still the same country; yet he felt as though he had crossed into some fairy kingdom, or a layer of Hell. It was as though Ishmeria itself had snapped under the strain of the insanity all around it, so that reality was warped to fit the madness. He looked over at Eadric, wondering if the young man still thought Adryl’s words were a fairy tale. His companion seemed more troubled by something else entirely.

“Where’s Garth?” demanded Eadric suddenly.

“He’s gone?” Lars darted around. The old man had been running alongside him, until… until when? He didn’t remember the last time he had seen Garth. Time was as muddled as space.

“I thought he was with you!” called Eadric.

“He was!”

“GARTH, YOU MORON! COME HERE!” roared Gweyn. The only answer was the screech of a gargoyle, like stone walls creaking under extremes of weather. They became quiet then, realising that making a loud noise might be a bad idea.

“We can’t let him get separated,” whispered Eadric, “We all die if we’re split up.”

“We stop and search, then. He can’t have gone far,” said Lars, “But if the Undead come, or if we don’t find him in an hour or so, we keep on running. If Norwood is truly safe, we must reach its borders by nightfall. Evil grows stronger by night, and if he has been alone for that long, we will not find him again.”


	10. Banishment

Dunmoor Beach

Garth shivered as the chill air wrapped around him as tightly as the wet, dust-stained tunic that clung to him as he crept along the shadow of the cliffs, alongside the narrow strip of beach. He couldn’t hear the morbid clacking of skeletal limbs any more. Had they lost sight of him? Maybe they were pursuing the others. He hoped they were. He was concerned for their safety, of course, but they had at least a chance of survival and he, an old man alone, had none.

It was foolish of him to run in the wrong direction but, upon reflection, he wasn’t sure what else he could have done. He had turned to follow them. He had been ahead of most of them. Then, suddenly, he was surrounded by six enemies that hadn’t been there before. The patch of sand he had stepped on erupted from under him. Bony hands had grasped at his legs, trying to pull him down into the grave. He hadn’t cared which direction he was running any more, as long as it wasn’t downwards. 

He cursed as he almost stumbled over a rock. One of the skeletons had clawed a deep gash in the side of his leg. He was having difficulty walking on that leg, now. Why did the skeletons have to chase after him? If anything was a threat to them, it certainly wasn’t him! But then, his luck had gone from bad to worse ever since he took Norwood from Loryn. Bloody Norwood. They were welcome to it, now. He should have just left it alone and conquered the rest of Ishmeria. By that stage of the game, he had just as much chance as the others. He had taken several provinces from both Erin and Ander, and he was about to take Divas. In fact, he *had* taken Divas. It was the last thing he did before Terian just appeared at his borders out of nowhere like a bloody magician. No, Garth was out of luck. He hummed a song to himself as he limped across the shore. 

He almost fell over it before he saw it; an object half buried in the sand. It was small, round and wooden. An old cart wheel? No, it was a table. A stool with all the legs snapped off emerged as he brushed off enough sand for him to take a closer look at it. There was also a set of rusted iron manacles, which he swore at and threw away. It must have been something to do with a banishment ceremony, perhaps a place for prisoners to queue up before they were herded onto the ship. He shrugged. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but then it obviously hadn’t been used for a long time. Ishmeria didn’t appear to have a Department of Homeland Security any more, only a broken table, a lonely watchtower and a beach full of skeletons. Now it was just an acceptable place for an old man to sit down for a few moments, failing anything better. 

“When I look at you I want to see your smile/And your eyes to shine, you say you'll stay a while…” he gasped, “Every day I wait my love for you grows … bloody hell, that hurts!”

Fighting off a wave of agony that brought with it an uncontrollable urge to surrender to unconsciousness, he squinted, forcing himself to look at the point straight ahead of him, to use the sharp pain as a reminder that he was still alive. What he saw there made him wish he could prove himself wrong.

Hollow eyes peered at him. Skulls grinned their permanent grins. Clacking bones marched inexorably towards him, their swords clutched in unbreakable grips. He met their gaze and sat still. He knew he wouldn’t be able to outrun them, now that he had lost the initial rush of energy from the chase. He could barely stay conscious. Running now would only make him look like an idiot as he died. 

He returned their grins and carried on singing his song, determined not to leave absolutely everything unfinished.

“Every day I wait my love for you grows, please don’t fade away my Ishmeria’s rose!”

A flash of lightning and a loud rumbling almost made him jump. He felt rain on his fevered skin, a light drizzle at first, then the clouds burst and he was drenched by a downpour. He shook his hair out of his face, then wiped his eyes. Before him, the skeletons were sinking back into the sand! As they were swallowed up, they desperately clutched at rocks and the branches of stunted trees, fighting whatever force was returning them to their resting place.

_Banishing them?_

It was a lunatic idea, but no more insane than the dead walking the earth, and the power that coarsed through his fingers as he clutched the table for balance, as though he was holding onto the branch of an ancient and sacred tree, or Gemfire itself, was more than he could possibly imagine, let alone channel. It swept him along with it, using him, not the other way around; it was just a coincidence that it was a tool for banishment, and he happened to want to banish things. He must do; otherwise why was he singing a song about it?

He heard a loud, frenzied scream. Griff stood on top of a pile of sinking bones, his face contorted in rage and agony. His movements were jerky and exaggerated, as though he was fighting against invisible hands pulling his strings, but he kept on going, a murderous look in his eyes. He was staring straight at Garth.

Prince Garth… no, he wasn’t a Prince any more, he was just a person, but a person in the middle of an ancient ritual that required a person to be present, both far lesser and far greater than any nobleman… Garth sang. His deep voice rang out loud and clear, full of truth. Then, at the last moment, just as Griff’s sword was about to fall, he felt his consciousness snatched away from him and flung onto a cerulean tide of pure magic. He never did hear the end of the song he sang, but he knew that there was someone else there to carry on where he left off.

Meanwhile, three Provinces away, a slightly crestfallen band of returning exiles wandered into a darkening forest.


	11. Homecoming

Norwood Forest

“Are you SURE you know where you’re going?” demanded Leander. Loryn put a finger to his lips.

“Be quiet, I can’t concentrate,” he hissed, “You should be keeping a look-out!”

He ran his hands down the bark of the ancient tree trunk. Elven waypoints were written in their own language that was never taught to humans, and had its own alphabet, flowing and subtle. The marks were so subtle that a human could not distinguish them from the natural patterns of the tree using sight alone, even if the waypoints weren’t magically obscured most of the time anyway. Only half an elf, Loryn did not have good enough senses to read waypoints without time and effort. Still, they were fairly simple messages and he had picked up the basics he needed: Homestead. Half a mile. East. Beware. Goblins.

Goblins were a threat he looked out for constantly, following every rustle of leaves, every breaking twig, every slight movement in the undergrowth. The band had caught a few here and there. Twice, they had been ambushed, a swarm of tiny, sharp-toothed, hairy creatures hissing and shrieking as they shot at the band with arrows or jumped out at them, clawing at their faces. Gweyn had been caught with an arrow, a nasty wound, but they had forced the Goblins to retreat and Leander had dressed the wound as best as he could. Loryn promised her that the Elves possessed strong healing magic; his word as Ambassador should be enough to persuade them to heal a strange human woman. As they walked silently between the trees, beady red eyes stared at them from the branches and a hundred tiny voices cackled cruelly. They were waiting for the humans to tire. 

Then, suddenly, the oppressive weight that was the knowledge of their presence seemed to lighten. The arrow-shafts occasionally found in the trees were longer, and more of them were impaling Goblins to said trees. By the time night fell, Loryn motioned for the band to stop and put away their weapons. He pointed up into the trees, indicating the balconies that ringed the top of their trunks, and the doors that led to hollowed-out caves or carefully constructed huts.

“We are peaceful! It is Loryn! E’lyndisorei di Lorelei Warsong!” he cried out in Elven, spreading his hands out to indicate his lack of weaponry. The others followed his example. Gweyn gave him a sour look, but she was feeling sick from the pain of her wound, and felt too tired to argue. After a few seconds, a voice cried out a distrustful-sounding response, and Loryn had a brief argument with what looked like the top of a tree. 

“They’re not going to kill us all,” he translated, before waving them inside the clearing. Tall, willowy figures appeared from behind trees or jumped down from branches. Some of them ran to Loryn and engaged him in animated conversation. A woman who looked like she could have been his younger sister gave him a warm hug and a kiss on the side of his face.

“Is this your family, Loryn?” asked Leander, “They look a lot more like you than any Divas I’ve ever met!”

“I have outlived my human parents, and I never had human siblings,” said Loryn, “This is my mother, Lorelei Riversong,” he introduced the woman, smiling, then said to her in Elven, “These are my human friends. When I conquer Ishmeria, I will spare their lives, and they will be my favourite vassals.”

“That is nice, dear,” her eyes flashed in amusement, then she switched to perfectly pronounced Tordin Ishmerian, “The blonde one will be your wife, then?”

Erik burst out laughing. The others had to restrain Gweyn from drawing her swords and killing Loryn on the spot, which wouldn’t have been the most helpful diplomatic act in the world. The rest of the elves who were crowded around them began laughing, too.

“You are an idiot and a loser,” Loryn’s mother told him lovingly, “Your friends need a healer?”

He nodded, “We were attacked by Goblins. Oh, and Skeletons.”

“These are dark times,” she said, “You chose the wrong time to return.”

She called out an order, almost immediately summoning an Elven man in long white robes. He motioned for the injured humans to follow him up a stepladder onto the first floor balcony.

“I had to return, mother,” he said, “I am sorry. I know I am not welcome, but Queen Arial told me that Ishmeria would burn if I did not, and I will not abandon my land, even if it casts me out.”

“We have been dreaming of such things as well,” she nodded, “To tell you the truth, we expected you to come here today. The guards were already looking out for you! We also know that you are completely outmatched, and have no plan,” she smiled as though this was the most amusing thing she had heard all day, “And that you would need us to lead you to the Sword.”

“What Sword?”

“The thing you are looking for. The holy relic that turns the tides of battles,” she said, “It is what you humans call the ‘Sword of Victory’.”

“You’ve got a Sword of Victory?” he cried in sudden exasperation, “You’ve had a Sword of Victory hidden away in the forest the entire time I’ve been fighting and you haven’t told me? Why didn’t you give it to me before? Why aren’t you using it now?”

“Oh… we tried to hand it to you, but we couldn’t!” she looked apologetic and more than a little confused, both at his anger and her own situation, “We can’t move it from its plinth! Even the greatest Elven warriors have tried and failed! We asked the Spirits about it and they said we aren’t the ones destined to move it, and that it included our Prince Loryn! So we didn’t bother. Was that the wrong thing to do?”

“If that’s the case, why are you giving it to me now?” he asked.

“The Spirits told us that your friend – the one called Lars – is supposed to pick it up.”

“Lars?” he scratched his head, “Are you sure? I mean, he’s not very… well, not very victorious. And even if he was, that would be a very good reason not to give him a powerful weapon when he’s not always been on the same side as me!”

“I heard my name! What’re you saying about me?” demanded Lars, “If she’s still trying to get you married off to someone, you can tell her from me…”

“It is time for evening meal,” she declared suddenly, “And then you all sleep! Rest up for your battles! You might have an important dream!” 

“That’s the best advice I’ve heard all day,” said Lars, “Where do we eat, then?”

“Top floor!” she announced.

Lars looked up at the towering trees. His head swam. “Oh, great,” he sighed.


	12. Dreams

_That night, Lars dreamt of crumbling towers, flocks of night-black ravens and flames that reached as high as the sky. He heard a woman’s voice calling out to him, soft and sweet, its allure as irresistible as sleep itself, but when he ran through the ruins to look for the woman, he found that the voice came from the beaks of the ravens. They called out to him in unison, sitting in rows around the terraces of some fallen castle. In its centre, untouched by the war that had clearly ravaged this place, was a single sword._

_The ravens’ cries grew louder as he walked towards the blade…  
_

* * *

_  
Eadric also dreamt. In his dreams, he walked the streets of Londre. Having never actually gotten as far as Londre, he only dimly recognised the Capital. Still, it had its own feel. In this dream-Londre, this archetype of everything the great city was, the feel was magnified; the streets were wider, the buildings taller, the tension about to burst its dams into an apocalyptic culmination. It was alive, it was the spirit of Ishmeria, and Ishmeria itself was overflowing with the life of every single soul that dwelled on its soil. He was back on Ishmerian soil. He felt like running down the streets, closing his eyes and feeling the wind rushing through his hair. He wanted to run onto the bridge and swing from the rails, as free as a child once again._

_He shook his head. He was home, yes, but he was not yet welcome. He had to be careful. This was a dream, and the city slept. When it awoke, it might be hungry.  
He stared over the rails at the night sky. The moon shone silver, its reflection in the water rippling and spilling over. Stars studded the sky, some blue, some blood-red. _

_He blinked and looked again at the lights in the water. Apart from the stars and moon, there were others, a fairy-ring of coloured lights. Flames that danced and rippled on the water. They were somewhere close. They were warm and comforting as hearth fires, yet they held the power of a raging inferno. He felt his heart longing for them in the same way that he yearned for his home when he was in exile._

_Suddenly, his stomach lurched as he realised he had jumped off the bridge and was rapidly falling towards the water. He sat bolt upright, instantly awake._

* * *

“I’m sorry, we haven’t seen any other humans in the forest,” said Lorelei sadly.

“Is there a possibility that the Oracles could ask the Spirits about him?” implored Loryn, “He is a dear friend of mine, he is an old human, lost and alone, and Ishmeria depends on him as it does me.”

“I shall ask. You must understand, however, that the Spirits answer as and when they feel the need to Ishmeria is great enough,” she said, “They care not for our opinion in this.”

“I understand, Mother,” he bowed his head. The others had heard him say Garth’s name and they shared his sadness. The atmosphere at morning meal was one of melancholy. Their dreams had not helped their mood, particularly Eadric and Lars. Loryn had told him about the sword after Lars had admitted the dream to him. It seemed only fair to give him the sword if it rightfully belonged to him to the extent that it called to him in dreams. Besides, he felt uncomfortable disobeying his mother.

He was not willing to extend the same favour to Eadric, no matter how many times he dreamt of the Gems of the Crown. Not that he would ever have any say in the ownership of Gemfire.

After breakfast, Loryn’s mother summoned a small hunting party and ordered them to lead the party to the Sword. It would involve venturing close to the human settlement, she explained to Loryn. It stood in the middle of a ruined castle. There was a legend hovering over the castle, that it would stand eternal, survive numerous wars, be fought over constantly, and that none would ever take it.

“Does that mean we’re going to have difficulties getting in there ourselves?” asked Loryn, “There aren’t Undead armies, are there? We’ve all had bad experiences with those.”

She shook her head, “We Elves go in there all the time. The curse only stops people taking it. If you don’t want to take it, you can wander in and out as many times as you want to.”

“What about the sword? Can we take that?”

“Yes. Well, no. But it won’t do anything bad to you,” she said, “You just won’t be able to. Except Lars. He can.”

“And what will happen to him?”

“I have no idea, I’m afraid.”

“I am not,” said Lars, after the conversation had been translated to him, “The sword called out to me in a vision. I was meant to wield it. It belongs to me.”

“Some visions can be warnings,” said Loryn.

He shook his head, “This didn’t feel like a warning. The dream of the Wyvern was a warning. When I placed my hand on the sword in the dream, it felt like the right thing to do. The most natural thing in the world.”

“Of course. Yourself being Ishmeria’s greatest strategist,” Loryn mocked him.

“You’re just jealous because you don’t have a magic sword,” retorted Lars, “Now, I have made up my mind. Will you allow me to follow my destiny?”

“It was only because of me that you ever heard of the sword in the first place…” Loryn sighed and shook his head, “Ah, what have I started? No matter. I can’t do much about it now. My mother would probably lead you to it as soon as my back was turned anyway.”

“Tell him to be at the gates after he has finished eating,” Lorelei told her son, “All of you should go. Just because it is his destiny alone, does not mean you can’t help him get there. Those human Princelings, they would have achieved so much more had they…”

“… United in the first place. So we keep being told,” said Loryn, first in Elven, then in Ishmerian. They laughed; they needed something to be light-hearted about, even if it was only laughing at their own foolishness, or rejoicing that they at last had some sense of purpose and direction, something resembling allies in a world where they didn’t belong, and a faint hope of victory.

* * *

_  
“I am still not convinced we have made the right decision,” said Skulryk, “Gem Wizards cannot simply go on strike!”_

_“It won’t be for long,” Empyron assured him._

_“Ishmeria is already falling apart around us!”_

_“Nothing that we cannot rebuild. It will not take that much longer than it did to bring everything to a standstill,” said Empyron, “A message here and there. A few signatures, perhaps.”_

_“Tell that to the people who suffer! There are no caravans or ships! The roads fall into ruin with none to repair them! Peasants fall ill because Chylla’s healers will no longer treat them for free!”_

_“They could not in any case, with the Crown constantly cutting our funding. Even Wizards need money, if they wish to maintain an entire Island,” said Empyron, irritably tapping his pen on the desk._

_“This is about gold?” Skulryk said incredulously._

_“This is about where the gold is going,” Empyron told him, “Eselred’s unsuccessful military campaigns I could deal with. Send a few wizards to the front line, they stop being so unsuccessful, they cost less. So far, Robyn has been spending the money on buying slaves to feed to Ogres and employing necromancers to aid her in dark rituals.”_

_“Then she has broken every law of Ishmeria, every pact between herself, the Crown and the land!” said Skulryk, “Surely we are authorised to act!”_

_“We are acting,” said Empyron, “Or have you not noticed? Nothing works for her either, any more. She cannot run Ishmeria with Ogres and Skeletons alone, and Gemfire is forever barred to her.”_

_“With all due respect, I don’t think she cares! I think she fully intends to turn our Isle into a Land of the Dead!”_

_“Then, she will learn the true horrors of Infernal Bureaucracy,” said Empyron, “Do not think I am acting without a plan. Or that I have forgotten the people. They suffer now, but it will not last, and they will suffer less in the long run.”_

_“I cannot return to my desk and wait until you have at least explained your plan!” demanded Skulryk, “I have worked harder than all of you to bring back the Dragon… to keep watch over him day and night…”_

_Suddenly, Skulryk winced from the pain that shot into his head, his vision blinded by a surging blue aura._

_“What was that?” he whispered, “A powerful magical resonance…”_

_Suddenly, he heard chaos erupting outside the room. The door was flung open and Chylla ran in, not asking permission to enter her superior’s office._

_“Pluvius summons us all immediately!” she announced, “His Gem was just reawakened – and by a third party, without his permission!”_

_“I told you we would not be waiting long,” Empyron told Skulryk as they ran after Chylla._


	13. Swords

Norwood Ruins

After an hour’s walk, Norwood Forest thinned out into farmland, fields separated neatly out by stone walls and winding country lanes. The exiles were happy to see green fields again, to know that Ishmeria was not completely swallowed by insanity. A gang of farm labourers dug in the fields and an elderly couple stood outside their simple stone cottage, staring at the band of exiles as though they had just fallen out of the sky from the moon. Ander wondered if they recognised their former Prince (and what they thought of the idea of his return if they did recognise him) or whether they were just surprised to suddenly see complete strangers in such large numbers, and all armed at that. He didn’t see any signs of conflict, although many of the fields were empty that Ander remembered as being most fertile of all. Here and there he even saw the telltale signs of Anghiskie infestations.

Unwilling to venture into the human settlement unless they really had to, the Elves gave them directions through the village. The ruined castle was a local landmark, if an unpopular one. Fearing it for its clearly unearthly nature, the locals assumed it was haunted and/or cursed. It had not been maintained in a long time. . Much of the stone was obscured by tangles of chokeweed and patches of nettles. A pair of squirrels chased each other around a section of broken column. A wooden fence had been constructed around the ruins, complete with some kind of demon-warding seal, but nobody stopped them as they climbed over the fence and traipsed up the cracked stone steps. They were clearly insane, and deserved whatever doom they were walking into.

They climbed the first few terraces together until they reached what would have been the inner sanctum when the castle was intact. In the middle of the courtyard was a fountain run dry, its statue that of a serene-faced, ageless woman with long flowing hair and angelic wings that were chipped and crumbling at the edges.

“The Goddess of Victory,” said Ander, “The Lyles erect a statue of Her in every town square. It is unlucky to allow Her statue to fall into disrepair. Look at the state of Her wings! And her face is not glorious or beautiful!”

“I disagree,” said Lars, looking up at the statue. True, her features were plain, her expression slightly lost, her eyes sad. She did not remind him of beauty, or of victory, but there was something enticing about her that he could not resist. Her slender arms rested on the pommel of a long-bladed sword of darkened steel. It was not part of the statue. Unlike any other part of the ruins, it was not marred by the passage of time where any normal sword that had been left here by the last people to dwell here would have rusted away to nothingness by now. It was supported by some kind of plinth that covered and protected the tip of the blade. Upon the plinth was carved an inscription in a flowing script that Lars could not make out from that distance. The blade sang to him as it had done in the dream. He could not help but come closer. Out of respect, his companions waited a little way from the inner walls, in complete silence.

As he came up close to the statue, he felt a sudden, potent sadness in his heart. The power emanating from the statue, like the darkest hour of the darkest night, weighed down upon him, so that he felt like falling to the ground and weeping all the tears that he had suppressed, all the sadness he had not even admitted to himself, as well as tears of sheer joy at finally surrendering his burden. A thousand songs of sweet melancholy flowed into his artist’s soul like a chorus of muses singing a funeral march. He was still lost and alone in exile, but he was his own exile at last. 

He closed his eyes and knelt before the statue, then reached forward a hand and gripped the hilt of the sword. It slid cleanly from its plinth, light and effortless to wield as if it was not there at all.

 _It has been many long years since I was last worshipped,_ whispered a voice in his head, _But I knew the mortals would not abandon me. After all, they cannot deny my existence when they enter my embrace. In the part of their soul they choose to ignore, they seek me out willingly. But you… my aura burns within you as brightly as the flames of a burning Empire. What is your name, my Paladin?_

 _Lars,_ he replied, _Prince Lars of Coryll._

_Prince Lars. I walk beside you as long as you carry my blade, and as long as my spirit resides in your soul. Use your power to spread my blessing to mortals, and to protect my people in their hour of need, when the unjust ones would persecute them._

_I shall never use this blade for evil, my Lady Goddess,_ he promised.

_Then set off now. I can see the name of your enemy in your heart. Bring my gift to them. I do so love it when people share my gift with their enemies._

_Lady Goddess… you are not Lady Victory, are you?_

_Why do people keep mistaking me for my sister?_ The Goddess complained irritably, as though she were a mortal woman talking about an everyday quarrel with her sister. The moment was lost and the vision faded. He was left in darkness. It was a powerful darkness, one filled with all the life of stars falling to earth, and the dying embers of the evening’s fires. 

He opened his eyes. In his hands he gripped the sword; or part of a sword. Below the point where it was obscured by the plinth, the blade was broken.

“And what exactly is that supposed to be?” demanded Eadric.

“It’s a Sword of Defeat,” said Lars, “Blessed personally by the Goddess of Defeat. That’s a statue of her. Not her sister. That’s why it looks like her sister but not quite the same, you see.” 

Once he finished, Erik burst out laughing. Lars wondered if the Great and Terrible Lady would mind if he used her One True Relic to smack the stupid man-ape across the face.

~~~~~~  
 _  
“Do you understand what has happened to you, Garth Chrysalis?”_

_He looked up at the impassive eyes that regarded him unblinking. He shook his head. He remembered fleeing from the Undead, taking wounds, then driving them back somehow before collapsing. So much energy had flowed through him... he had been connected to so much at once..._

_“You are in the headquarters of the Gem Wizards,” the tall, broad-faced man explained, “You interfered with the services of one of the Gem Wizards that lay dormant. It attracted our attention. Don't worry, you will not be harmed. You will be tested for latent powers. You will not be allowed to see anything that would allow you to identify this place, so you won't need to be memory wiped. Something tells me you already have an idea what's going on, though. We may need to have a good long talk.”_

_“I... I really do wish I knew what was going on myself,” gasped Garth, “I'm sorry I interfered... and that I broke curfew on my exile...”_

_“You didn't break curfew, Garth, you were invited back by King Terian!”_

_“That letter was genuine?” he raised his eyebrows in surprise, “That's good to know... do the others know?”_

_“I don't know. I have no information about them, apart from who you are,” he said, the atmosphere in the room changing but the tone of his voice never shifting, “I'm not supposed to know who you are. Or who I am. But I do. And I know you've been traveling with one of my sons. You know where they went, when you were separated. I want to see my son, Garth, before they find out I know these things and wipe my memory again.”_

_“Isn't it dangerous for you to be out in the open when your sister's...”_

_“You're going to fight my sister, aren't you? I can help you with that, you know,” he said, with as much emotion as if he were offering to make another cup of tea. If he had any opinion on his siblings betraying him and fighting each other to the death, he was good at hiding it, “Skulryk is about to walk in now. For both our sakes, you should not repeat this conversation. We will get our chance soon. We will leave at the first opportunity.”_

_Garth heard rapid footsteps, then a man he recognised as Skulryk, his former Fifth Unit, walked in._

_“There's been an emergency,” he said, “You'll have to hold off the questioning for now.”_

_He nodded, then followed Skulryk out of the door, locking Garth in behind him. The old Prince wondered how far he could trust even such a different Eselred._

_“What is the emergency?” asked Dragon._

_“The threat to Ishmeria has mobilised and is heading North towards us,” explained Skulryk, “One of their gems is spent – for now – but they have activated the power of another.”_

_“Is the gem creature close to us?”_

_“It has been activated somewhere in Norwood. I don't know why they are heading so far up North. We are trying to slow them down as much as possible.”_

_“Norwood,” repeated Dragon thoughtfully._  
~~~~

 

The first Anghkishie leaped at Lars. He ducked underneath its claws, thrusting his blade through its chest. The sword seemed to flicker with dark flame, its broken blade whole for a second, as he whirled around to meet a new attacker. The rat-haired monstrosities attempted to surround them but he ducked under a slashing claw, venomous and as large as his head, before slicing its arm off and attacking the one next to it from behind. They stared at each other, the diseased yellow eyes of the monsters and the intense stare of the exiled prince, neither of them sure who was predator and who was prey any more. Then Lars ran forward, screaming the Coryll battle cry. The Blade of Defeat swung around again. The Anghiskie's claw had been at the right angle to block it but suddenly it wasn't. Sensing something was wrong with the human, it tried to edge backwards and immediately tripped over a furrow in the soil that hadn't been there seconds before.

Within minutes, the soil was stained red. Apparently, monsters bled the same colour as humans. Lars' blade flared up, as if the Anghiskie's downfall was fuel for its flames.

“There'll be more where that came from. You need to be prepared. Band together and defend Ishmeria's fields,” Lars told the open-mouthed onlooking farmers.

“Will, do, Sir,” said their leader, “Never fear, the next monster that tries to eat our crops will get a pitchfork right up its...”

“Won't you come and aid us in the battle?” the man's wife hastily asked Lars.

“We have another job to do, I'm afraid,” he told them, “But we're not going anywhere. After the battle, we're going to claim what's rightfully ours!”

“Good for you!” she said, “Is it true, though? That Prince Ander's come home?”

He nodded, “Yes, Prince Ander is here. Um... by the way, what do you folks actually think of him? Don't worry. I won't tell him. After all, its in all our best interests that nobody else finds out about this whole affair.”

A serious expression clouded her face, “We're all very fond of our Prince, and he's never done wrong by us, but he's a little unreliable. He needs to stop arguing with the neighbours over every little thing, and he needs to get himself a wife.”

Lars smiled, “Thank you.”

“Are you sure you'll be okay?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You've got the same look about you as he does,” she said, “Like we can't quite trust you to come back alive. And that sword you've found, it looks like it’s under a curse!”

“A blessing,” he corrected.

“Well, either way, its going to demand a sacrifice! Things like that always do!”

“I'll keep my eye on it,” he promised, then he walked off down the road, to the inn where his companions were staying. The crowd waved at him as he left. 

“Does it work?” asked Ander.

“Sort of,” said Lars.

“So, we've got some sort of weapon we can use against them at last,” said Ander, “I propose we make a move to attack!”

“We don't actually know where the enemy is,” Lars reminded him, “And travelling around Ishmeria is going to be really difficult if its all in this bad condition.”

“From the number of monsters here that meet the description Adryl gave us, I'd say Robyn already has access to the magic she was trying to wield,” said Leander, “So we can rule out Lisle.”

“It doesn't really narrow it down,” said Lars, “If there's more magic, she might be looking for it. Or she might need to be somewhere to activate it.”

“I say we return to Norwood for now,” said Loryn, “I should let them know that we found the sword.”

“Its a place to start,” said Lars.

The villagers were all gathered around the gates, and waved at them, yelling endless questions at them as they walked past. They could not go unnoticed any more. Tongues were loose and rumours spread like wildfire, no matter what the farmers had promised. The entire village clearly already knew. Soon, somehow, despite the lack of a postal service, the next village over would find out, then the next. They were truly returning exiles now – they had a duty to reclaim their land, and the whole of Ishmeria would soon know about it.

Lars couldn't help casting amused glances at Ander as they walked along.


	14. Losses

Norwood Forest

The skies darkened as they entered the forest. It was still only mid morning. The darkness was menacing, like that before an oncoming storm. No birds sang, no animals ran through the trees, even the Goblins didn't seem too enthusiastic about jumping out from the trees and trying to eat them. The tension in the air affected the band of exiles too. Nobody wanted to talk, even to make jibes at each other. Hands tightly gripped the hilts of weapons. No corner of the trees escaped their glances. Something was very wrong. Lars' new sword still hummed with power, and its holy resonance sounded like a melancholy song, a prayer to its Goddess, the Broken-Winged Valkyrie. Soon, despite his paranoid mood, he found himself humming along. The tune was old, simple, without words, but he was a poet and within seconds he had thought of a set of lyrics for five verses.

“The world outside is not my own, its the one I lost, the one I abandoned long ago...” he sung under his breath. Irritably, Leander frowned and shushed him.

“I'm listening out for Goblins!” he whispered.

“There are no Goblins,” replied Lars, “There's no anything. That's the problem.”

“Goblins in stealth wouldn't make a Goblin noise!”

“Then why are you listening out for them?”

“Just shut up!”

Lars continued singing his tune internally. It wasn't as satisfying. The forest grew darker as they moved closer to its heart. They tried to stay as far away from the tallest trees as possible, covering their heads with their cloaks, just in case it was an actual storm. It was difficult; all the trees were tall, and there were trees everywhere.

“How do Elves stop their trees being hit by lightning?” Lars whispered to Loryn.

“Magic and prayer,” he replied.

“If we get close enough to the Settlement, will we not get hit by lightning too?”

“I don't think its a thunderstorm,” he said, “I can sense bad magic. Its interfering with the waypoints. I'm having trouble finding my way. And it almost too dark to see the physical marks.”

“Oh, great, a fine time to get us lost,” muttered Leander.

“We've been walking for long enough, and I've memorised most of the route. I don't think it'll be far,” Loryn assured them.

They walked on in silence. Soon it was as dark as the dead of night. Gweyn and Erin had brought lanterns with them from the boats, hooded so that they would minimise the risk of setting things on fire. It didn't really make that much difference, and the shadows that flitted across the ground where the lantern's flames leapt looked disturbingly unnatural.

Suddenly, there were several screams at once. One was Leander's, a scream of mortal terror, the other was Burgundy's reptilian screech, the noise that the pseudodragon made when it was terrified or in great pain, and the third definitely wasn't human or animal. The shrill shriek felt like a note high enough to shatter reality, like claws tearing down the fabric of their souls. A stabbing pain shot through Lars' head. The sword made a discordant noise in protest, as though its machinery was broken. Loryn began swearing in Elven. Then Leander let out a cry of rage and began firing his crossbow into the trees. Lars looked up at where he was firing and saw a figure wrapped in pale blue ghost-light, like the inside of a grave. It wore a ragged burial shroud, its hair was long, straggly and matted, its figure as emaciated as a rotten corpse. It opened its thin-lipped mouth and Lars realised it was going to make the noise again; the scream of a Banshee. 

Just then, Leander's crossbow bolt thudded between its eyes, quickly followed by one in its chest. It staggered back, making a noise somewhere in-between a frustrated little girl and a broken machine, and fell off its perch. It threw back its arms and sank into the ground.

“Behind us!” roared Erik, grabbing Erin's sword off him and throwing it at the highest branch of the tree behind him. It did not hit the Banshee but it snapped the branch, forcing it to jump down again. Leander shot another crossbow bolt into it and several more people were now rushing towards it with weapons drawn. Erin managed to grab it, holding it above the ground so it couldn't melt away. It writhed in his grasp, kicking and scraping at his face with bony hands and feet that stank of the grave, snapping with its teeth. 

“Keep it occupied! Don't give it time to scream again!” Loryn told them.

“Give me the kill, the bastard thing!” roared Leander, shoving Loryn out of the way. He took Erin's sword from where it lay, then ran over to where four of them were trying to prevent it from gouging Ander's eyes out and breaking free. He removed its head with one swing, then stamped on the head repeatedly just in case it could survive away from its body.

“Garth, you almost hit Ander!” said Loryn. In his berserk rage, the old man didn’t seem to notice or care. Ander jumped back for his own safety as Leander grabbed the thing, tearing it apart until he was covered in bone fragments and grave dust. Then he stood up, shook himself down and walked over to Burgundy. The little dragon lay on the floor, limp an lifeless.

“They’ve got more sensitive hearing than us,” said Leander, “It must have heard the Banshee before we did. It’s the first person to hear it that gets the curse, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” said Loryn, “We’ll give it a proper burial once we get to a safe place.”

“There are no bloody safe places in this forest, Loryn,” he said, gently picking the lizard up and placing it in his backpack.

The light was already returning but their spirits were darker than ever as they finally reached the Elven stronghold.

* * *

“We’re glad you returned safely,” said Lorelei over afternoon meal, “There were dark things in that forest last night. We sensed them. We didn’t go out in them. Did you find the Sword of Victory?”

“Who told you it was a Sword of Victory, out of interest?” said Lars.

“Oh, we don’t call it that. I only said that was what the humans called it,” said Loryn’s mother, her eyes full of humour, “Humans give things such silly names.”

“Still, I’m glad we found it,” said Lars, “It will prove useful in the final battle… I think?”

“We have more good news for you,” she said, “We met some other humans. We think one of them may be this ‘Garth’ fellow you were looking for.”

“You say ‘humans’…who was with him?”

“He did not say his name. He says he wishes to speak with your ‘Eadric’ in private, and then to all of you,” she replied, “He has an aura of powerful magic around him. We did not feel hostility in his intent.”

“I’ll speak with him,” said Eadric, “But I want people close by, just in case.”

“I’ll wait nearby,” said Loryn. Lars and Ander also volunteered.

‘Begging your pardon, is there…” began Garth, holding his head low, ‘Is there a safe place where I can bury my dead? Safe for the dead, as well as myself, you understand.”

She nodded, “We can’t let you use the Elven graveyard, but there is another small copse, for non-Elven souls we wish to honour. It is still a holy place.”

“Thank you,” he said, “I need my privacy now.”

“I understand. And I’m sorry for your loss.”

Eadric and Leander went their separate ways. The rest of them went to the meeting room, where Garth sat there, sipping from a glass of some kind of Elven wine. He looked well, even more so than when they had last seen him. More than anything, he looked bored. When he saw them, he smiled and embraced Lars.

“Sorry to desert you like that. I took a little side trip,” he said. Then they sat down while he told his story.

* * *

“And then Chylla healed me. I feel better than ever,” he said, “That back pain I’ve been having trouble with has vanished. No wonder those Gem Wizards live for such a long time!”

“But you didn’t see anything that would help you describe the place or confirm your story?” said Ander.

“I told you, they kept me in the dark on purpose!”

“Sure, we believe you!” he grinned.

“Ask the fellow with me if you don’t believe me!”

“The man we’re supposed to believe is Eselred?”

“It isn’t that implausible, compared to everything we’ve seen up to now,” said Lars, “And its true we haven’t seen any more of the skeletons. And he’s alive. If Garth really did run the wrong way – and that’s something anyone can believe – it would have taken an immortal wizard to rescue him!”

“No, no, I told you, I did the ceremony myself!”

“With the power of song,” said Ander, “Of course. It makes perfect sense.”

“And yet you’re willing to believe in a Goddess of Defeat who hands out magic swords that kill your enemies even when they’re broken? What kind of right-minded person would worship a Goddess of Defeat?”

“I’d thank you not to blaspheme against my new religion,” said Lars.

“Precisely what I was saying!” 

“You shall burn for your sins, heretic!” said Lars with mock ferocity, “We’re just glad to see you alive, Garth.”

“I hope Leander’s okay out there,” said Ander, “He’s been gone a long while.”

“The loss of his best friend must have been hard on him. He’s had Burgundy since he was a young boy,” said Lars, “The creature sacrificed itself for his master, whether it was intentional or not.”

“I’m going to miss the silly thing as well,” said Garth, “It always was the most intelligent of our little band.”

“Shall we go and see where Leander’s gone?” asked Lars.

“We promised we’d wait for Eadric,” Ander pointed out.

“I’ll stay here,” volunteered Loryn, “I can summon help if I need to. You need to go together if there’s something out there. Try not to all die horribly or get eaten by anything!” 

Their morale bolstered by Loryn’s reassuring words, they followed one of the Elven priests into the forest clearing.


	15. Rallying

They could feel that something was there before they reached the clearing. It wasn’t the same oppressive darkness that had covered the woods when the Banshee had come, but there was more life, more movement and small noises than was usually for the forest. The Elves told them that the area was rarely visited, only for those among them that chose animal companions, when they inevitably died, or for the rare occasions when they found a human in the forest who had become a victim of a wolf or Goblin. Humans in the forest were rare enough whether alive or dead. The spirits that lived in the sanctuary were probably confused.

They passed through an avenue of Yew trees and into the small clearing, where a shrine had been made in front of a larger tree in the centre. Garlands of flowers, heaps of pebbles and other gifts surrounded the tree. Leander knelt before the tree, Burgundy’s still form stretched out before him on a bed of leaves. He had been about to start digging a small grave for the lizard but had stopped to look at what had begun happening all around him.

Pouring out from the undergrowth, from nearby bushes and underneath rocks, even some gliding from trees, came a swarm of lizards. Most of them were ordinary small lizards rather than miniature dragons like Burgundy, some with beautiful rainbow-coloured fronds, some brightly-coloured with spots that were probably poisonous, as well as a variety that flew with some kind of leathery webs on their feet. They stared back at Leander, thousands of beady, penetrating gazes like a host of Infernal Judges. After a few moments of utter confusion, a few of the lizards began scuttling towards Leander. Without moving, he allowed them to surround Burgundy’s corpse and drag it away. They were probably going to eat it, he thought, but if that’s what lizards did, he guessed a lizard would be happier with a lizard’s death.

Then one of the rainbow-fronded lizards stopped directly in front of Garth, staring at him meaningfully. They were organising themselves into circles. It wasn’t threatening but it was far too purposeful for animals. In fact, should these lizards even be together? Such different varieties usually lived on opposite ends of Ishmeria.

The lizard’s eyes darted upwards and Leander followed its gaze. He almost cried out when he saw more lizards, much larger, with sinuous scaly bodies and broad leathery wings, flying in circles in the sky.

“Dragons!” whispered Ander. Lars shushed him.

“They’re not threatening him,” he whispered, “I don’t think they’re the same kind of dragon as the one sealed in Gemfire. Look, they’re smaller and they don’t reek of faulty magic.”

“Garth does seem to have a way with lizards,” commented Ander, “If he didn’t, he would never have been able to stop Elgis defecting when his back was turned. I think he’ll be okay. Let’s go back and leave him to it.”

* * *

Still joking about some vassals and their resemblances to unsightly creatures that enjoy crawling under rocks, the two of them traipsed back to the Meeting Hall. Eadric had finished talking to the wizard and the two of them now sat in the Meeting Hall with Loryn. It was the first time Lars and Ander had seen the stranger before. He did bear a strong resemblance to Eselred, although his hair was pure black and flowed loose around a forest-green tunic with a brown sash, simple but expensive-looking, nothing like the gaudy way Eselred used to wear the finest silks in colours that deliberately clashed. He looked stronger and more at peace with himself than the King had ever been. He radiated a different kind of power.

“I’m going to have to meet with all of you together, now,” he said, “You need my help if you’re going to fight my daughter. And yes, I am Eselred, although I know I cannot persuade you of this. It does not matter. We will not be able to address each other by name in public. We must pretend we don’t know each other. If the other Wizards ask, I am supervising you because I believe you may be of interest to the Crown. You believe I am simply another ally. That is all. In reality, this is about the extent of the relationship I wish to have with you anyway. I am a useful tool. You have an important job that requires me. My days of leading a mortal life are over.”

“Then you don’t care about your children?” asked Ander.

“Anything between me and my children has already been settled. I was a bad father. I will not ask for a job back that I clearly cannot do. I will make a better job of being a helpful ally and pleasant company. It will be a lot easier,” he shrugged.

“And you’re fine with that?” Ander asked Eadric.

“As I said, I’ve never thought of myself as a Lankshire,” said Eadric.

“Oh, you are a Lankshire,” said Eselred, “You’re just not one of the failed batch. And because you are one of the Children of the Crown, you are the last of us who I can trust to control Gemfire. Not as King,” he silenced their protests with a wave of his arm, “Don’t start arguing over that again, or we’ll all be dead! I meant as someone with the responsibility of controlling Gemfire’s power. Someone who can keep it away from Robyn, and everyone who would use it for evil. Someone who can use the power to combat evil.”

“Isn’t that your job?”

“I can do the job, yes, but it is tiring me. I don’t want to be part of both worlds, with the burdens of both. I’m going to stop resisting my conditioning and become a full Gem Wizard. That means others will be able to control me. It won’t be safe to let Gemfire lie dormant. So, I want to give the Crown to you, Eadric. As a tool for a job, not as some God-given authority. Just as being given a sword doesn’t give you authority to kill anyone you like.”

“I’ll be going to the Fifth Unit Headquarters to… to undertake the procedure,” said Eadric, clearly nervous about the massive import of the rather banal-sounding words, “So I won’t be available for a few days. It’ll be a good opportunity to rest up and formulate a battle strategy.”

“Bear in mind that Eadric will be able to find Robyn when he returns, by using my power. It is one of a Gem Wizard’s natural abilities: we know where all other Gem Wizards, Monsters of the Lisle Crown and Monarchs of the Crown are, at all times,” explained the man who claimed to be Eselred, “Which brings me to another thing: Garth is coming with us.”

“Is the old man in trouble again?” asked Ander.

“Not in ‘trouble’, as such,” said Eselred, “But when we discovered that he had reactivated Skulryk’s Gem on his own, we tested him for latent Gem Wizard potential, as well as Lankshire blood, among other things. We needed to know why he could channel so much power. In the end, we discovered that he had Lisle blood. The original Lisle Dynasty, inheritors of the Lisle Crown.”

“The Princess Crown, you mean,” said Lars, “Its okay. We always thought of Garth as our Princess.”

Garth blushed, and a ripple of barely suppressed laughter spread through the crowd.

“Does this mean he has a chance of controlling the Princess Crown? Of getting it off Robyn?” asked Ander.

“He has more claim to the Crown than Robyn, but he has far less magical power. In fact, he probably won’t be able to use magic unless he is directly in contact with magic already imbued in an artefact, such as the Round Table of Dunmoor. If we can get him to touch the Crown, he might have a chance.”

“Knock down the Crown, hm?” Loryn smiled.

“Anyway, we shouldn’t go into too much discussion about the details of our strategy. We’ll have to repeat all this when we gather everyone together,” said Eadric, “How did you get on with finding Leander, by the way?”

“Oh… he looked… um… busy!” said Ander.

Eadric gave him a suspicious look, “I do hope he’s not too ‘busy’ to turn up to our strategy meeting, or I’ll leave him out of our strategy altogether, the old slacker!”

Ander and Lars looked each other and shrugged.

* * *

By the time the strategy meeting went ahead, Leander was back. The presence of several more dragonettes, one of which had bright purple and pink fronds, the other of which kept hovering in mid-air and performing acrobatic tricks to impress them, confused the onlookers no end, even the implacable Elves who seemed able to predict everything. When Leander made his announcement, they were even more surprised.

“I’ve never even heard of naturally occurring dragons!” said Lars.

“They live up in the highest peaks, where the air is too thin for humans to live,” said Leander, “They never bother going into human territory. However, one other creature does live there: Wyverns. Even under normal circumstances, they fight constantly over food and territory. They’re kind of like a flying version of Erin and Ander. Now that the Princess Crown is controlling the Wyverns again, they’ve started becoming more organised, acting in a more intelligent manner and attacking much more viciously with no provocation. They started trying to take over dragon territories for no reason, killing females and hatchlings, even though food has been plentiful for both dragons and Wyverns this year. The dragons have decided its time act differently to normal as well: to be more aggressive in their defence. The dragons are going to war.” 

“And, what, they want an alliance?” asked Lars, “Since when did you actually speak lizard, anyway?”

“I don’t ‘speak’ to them. I just understand the way they think and I know a lot of their background. They’re intelligent enough to communicate very simple information. You just have to be able to put it all together in a logical way,” he said, “Yes, they want an alliance. The biggest of them can fly us up to the Wyvern lairs. I explained to them that they have a human leader. If we promise to find the human leader and stop her controlling the Wyverns, they will fly us wherever we need to go, even if it’s into the middle of a pack of Wyverns. No, especially if it’s into the middle of a pack of Wyverns!”

“They sound like useful allies to me,” said Garth, “And Eadric will be able to tell where Robyn is!”

“There might be an easier way to find Robyn than a magical search,” said Eselred, “A Gem-controlled Fifth Unit who is not outright killed will always retreat to the Gem’s owner. It means we can’t be captured, although if the unit is something that can’t retreat discretely, it leaves the risk of us being followed. A Wyvern can’t teleport. We could mortally injure one and have it lead us to its master.”

“I’m sorry, Leander, but this does mean that the Banshee might not be dead. You saw how good those things were at escaping. I’m just saying this so we all know to be careful,” said Eadric, “Maybe we should wear earplugs into battle or something.”

“Another good reason to have dragons as allies. They have as good hearing as lizards, and are much harder to kill instantly. Plus, Banshees can’t fly, so they only get one chance to attack us if they miss. I intend not to give them long enough to try for a second scream.”

“We’ll consider it,” said Eadric, “Of course, you’d be in command of our dragons. I would be busy channelling Gemfire to try and disrupt the Princess Crown, while Garth tries to control the Princess Crown. Lars, I want you in the front lines. You have that sword, so you should be using it to fight the Wyvern and Robyn.”

“I can lead a small unit of Elves,” said Loryn, “We’re good archers and our mages can fire spells as missiles, so we’re good against flyers.”

“I’m used to fighting from the front lines as well,” said Erik, “I don’t have a magical weapon, but I’ve felled an Ogre in single combat with this axe. Wyverns can be hurt by mundane blows. I’ve seen it done. True, there were three hundred fighters against one Wyvern, but then none of them were me.”

“In other words, you’re worried I’ll rack up more kills than you,” said Lars.

“Having a magical sword is cheating!” declared Erik, “I don’t care if it is a Sword of Defeat!”

“Erik, Lars isn’t going to run around racking up kills,” said Leander, “He’s going to take out the General. If you want to beat his kill count, you’re better off helping the dragons hold off the main bulk of the Wyverns while he sneaks around the back.”

“Ah, I see! You’re right,” said Eadric, “But that’ll leave the numbers unbalanced! Erin, Gweyn, why don’t you go and assist Erik and Loryn?"

“We could take the ship! Nobody in Ishmeria ever expects a sea attack!” suggested Gweyn.

“You can both command a ship, can’t you? I’ll ask Skulryk if you can borrow the Uncharted Waters,” said Eselred, “We can easily fix a few cannons onto it.”

“Um… I… guess I can help Lars fight,” said Ander, “You need at least two melee fighters, right?”

Garth nodded, glad that they’d gotten the idea for themselves. Once again, the diplomatic crisis of Ander and Erin or Lars and Erik being left alone together for too long had been averted. The main mission of the strategy meeting had been accomplished. There was nothing they could do but prepare for the true battle to begin.

* * *

_  
“What is this you bring me? Utter failure?”_

_“I’m sorry, Mistress, but they had some kind of power of their own,” came the sybillant hiss of her voice, “A power of defeat. Defeat hung heavily in the air. Even they… even they lost someone. I slew one of them. The others wept for it.”_

_“Good, good. It will drain their morale. They are few and I command the whole of Ishmeria. I will turn the entire land against them. It will break them,” she said._

_“Will you forgive me, then?”_

_“No punishment for now, Banshee. Return to your jewel and replenish your power,” she said, “But if you fail me once more… if you ever return here without having killed anyone… I will bar you from your gem, but never release you from its service. You will waste away.”_

_“I heed your warning, Mistress.”_

_She removed the Crown from her head and placed her hand on one of the jewels inlaid into it, a polished sphere of pure jet. Dark energy pulsed from her hand, the gem glowed, then the Banshee vanished._

_“No more subtlety. No more infiltration and assassination,” she told herself, “At least I know, now, where they all are. I know what they can do in those kinds of numbers. I saw them fight each other on the battlefields of Gemfire. Morale tricks alone won’t be enough to drive them away. It is time for me to attack in force.”_

_She placed her hand on the largest, central gem, a blood garnet, and closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of raw power that washed over her.  
“I forgot to ask what on Earth a ‘power of defeat’ was,” she mused._


	16. Prayers

Dunmoor Harbour

Garth stood on Dunmoor Bay, watching the Seabandits leave the harbour. No sign remained of the Undead monsters that had attacked them when they first arrived on the island. The sense of wrongness had gone, except for the all-pervading dark energy that lingered everywhere in Ishmeria. Garth felt faint resonances of the power that flowed through him during the Ceremony. On the other side of the beach, he saw Skulryk stand over the Round Table and chant; whether he was trying to deactivate it, check it hadn’t been damaged or some other ritual, Garth had no way of knowing. Mild curiosity came over him. There was a hidden world throughout Ishmeria, one that far outranked the King’s own. He would have plenty of chances to look at the machinery once the battle was over. I should probably tell everyone the whole truth, he thought to himself, but now isn’t the time. Those young people are too easily distracted by irrelevances. 

The sailors finally finished preparing the two ships and Erin and Gweyn gave the order to set off for Caster. Gweyn fired a signal flare to alert Loryn, who ordered his own forces – himself, Ander, Erik and a unit of Elven scouts - to advance through Norwood’s forests, then south through Rodale and Centra. One of the Elves used a simple fireworks cantrip to alert Leander and his dragons that they were in position. Surrounded by a cloud of smaller flying lizards, Leander, Lars, Erin and Eadric flew on dragonback through the darkened skies of Ishmeria towards the towering spires of Londre City.

The first sighting of a Wyvern was over the mountains of Rodale. They hovered in a circle, shrieking their mournful cries. When they spotted the dragons’ approach, they darted towards their attackers on spike-tipped wings, razor-sharp talons outstretched, beaks snapping. They fell upon the first dragon, grabbing hold of him in their talons and dragging him down while buffeting him with their wings to confuse him. Two of them were engulfed by flame, several more receiving gashes along their leathery flanks, but the dragon dropped from the sky, its wings in tatters, and the deadly raptors kept on coming.

Lars drew his sword. As dark flames played across its flawed surface, he swore that the sun began to set. “For Lady defeat!” he cried, steering his dragon towards the nearest enemy. As the Wyvern swooped down to grab the dragon, he sliced upwards into its neck. The blade penetrated its tough hide easily and the beast gave a gurgling screech before falling dead. Its death cry alerted the others; he was a threat now. The beasts understood that he was not merely a tiny human. 

The dragon wheeled out of the way and he sliced at the nearest Wyvern’s wing. He could feel the Dark Goddess’ icy hand touching their souls, causing them to swerve slightly too wide, their claws to miss by a fraction of an angle. Their morale, strengthened by the supernatural bond of the Crown, was somehow wavering, as though they were regaining their primal instincts that told them a normal, sane Wyvern would not be here right now.

He wondered how Loryn and his company were doing. Lars could see other flights of Wyverns in the distance. Were the archers enough to keep them at bay? Would they be able to hold their own against the castle’s defences? Judging by what they had seen so far, the castle’s guardians were almost certainly not human soldiers. Robyn seemed set on replacing every single human in Ishmeria with some species more interesting. Of course, there was the possibility that Robyn wasn’t even in Londre. Any decent Queen would be in the Capital City at a time like this, defending Ishmeria’s stronghold from invaders, but Robyn was not a decent Queen.

If only one of those bastards would retreat, thought Lars as he clung to the dragon’s neck just in time to avoid being thrown from his saddle as the dragon barrel-rolled out of the way of a Wyvern who rammed deliberately into them, its wings whipping up a gale. Lars swore at the Wyvern. His anger and frustration was building up into something uncontrollable. It was the other presence in his mind; he couldn’t hide his true feelings from Her. No matter how hard he try to look brave and noble and fierce, she could see that he had no idea what he was doing most of the time, and was struggling just to stay alive. 

_You mortals are all like that,_ whispered a slightly sullen voice in his head, _but you mustn’t try so hard. You all die really quickly anyway._

“SHUT UP! That’s not helping!” he roared, ducking to avoid a claw aimed at his head, then slicing upwards to remove the beast’s limb. 

_I’m just telling you for your own good. You’re a bard. You have something other than staying alive. Much more. That’s why you go into exile instead of dying…_

“That’s no use in a battle!” he screamed as the dragon darted upwards to finish off its enemy, ignoring the fragile human on its back in its hatred of the Wyvern.

_The injured Wyvern over there. Do you want it to retreat?_

“Hell, yes!” he roared.

_Then do as I say. Fly towards it on my command and sing a prayer._

“A prayer?”

_I don’t know, a defeat fanfare or something. You have those in Ishmeria, right?_

He nodded, then signaled to the dragon where to go. His noble steed hissed its confusion.

“It’s perfectly clear,” he told the dragon, “I’m going to speed through the skies on the back of a dragon brandishing my holy sword aloft and singing the Ishmerian Defeat Fanfare. This is going to look interesting in the history books…”

NOW! 

With a flick of its tongue that Lars decided counted as a resigned shrug, the dragon sped off after the Wyvern. It was flying at an odd angle, its left wing slightly stiff. As it saw the new attacker, it bared its fangs and shrieked a challenge. Lars stared into its cold, merciless eyes and began singing. The beautifully melancholy chords of the centuries-old song seemed to take up all of his concentration. He felt the world around him grow dark. Then a figure flew down from the sky, outlined in the fires of the setting sun. Her hair was raven-black, her face ageless and her eyes smouldering with fires that burned low but never quite went out. Her wings and her broken sword dripped blood. She flashed Lars a thin smile, then held her hand out towards the Wyvern and stretched her wings out to their full length. 

Lars heard something shatter, then light began streaming into his vision again. The Wyvern was flying off in the opposite direction.

“Follow it!” he ordered.

* * *

_“The Crown is failing! Karla, why is my magic failing me? I thought you had it under control before you brought it to me!”_

_“It was only a temporary failure, my Queen. The enemy, they have magic of their own. There’s nothing much I can do about…”_

_“Magic from where? Gemfire doesn’t work! Have the exiles brought something back with them? Some kind of foreign magic? Why did the Pastha not destroy them? Why is the whole of Ishmeria failing at everything?”_

_“Your Majesty, there’s something you need to know…” she said, bowing her head, “They aren’t exiles. The assassins we sent failed. The message got to them. Terian’s last act was to formally pardon them.”_

_“That sentimental fool,” she hissed, “Or did he plan all this in advance?”_

_“Your Majesty, I think it may have been Anise. She had already fled long before our coup. The girl we assassinated was a double, one of her secretaries dressed as her. I told you Anise was more dangerous than Terian! She can read female behaviour, and she has access to the Bureau!”_

_“Why have we not been able to contact the Bureau? I want them all dead! They’ve brought Ishmeria to a standstill!”_

_“I can’t contact them, Your Majesty. I just don’t know where they are,” she bowed her head._

_“And I thought you, at least, were not useless! You will stand and fight on the front lines! You can at least be useful to me as a battle mage!”_

_“Then how will you defend yourself?”_

_“I am no defenceless little girl myself, Karla. And I have one last ace to play.”_


	17. Conclusion

Londre Castle

The fighters in the courtyard looked like swarming ants as the dragons flew over Londre in pursuit of the fleeing Wyvern. Lars couldn’t tell who was winning, only that the battle hadn’t yet been decided. There was absolute chaos in front of the gates of Londre Castle. Several fires had broken out and edifices that had been toppled by magical barrages had been dragged to use as blockades. At first he thought that was where they were stopping, but then the Wyvern flew straight past the castle and up the great hill towards Londre Tower. It flew straight up the side, then perched on the eyrie at the very top of the tower, licking its wounds until it dissipated in a cluster of magical fire, returned to the Lisle crown for proper healing. 

“She must have holed herself up in the Tower,” said Lars, “Adryl was right – she has been using it as her base of operations while pretending to be locked in it to incite civil war!”

“I must be the one to confront my sister,” said Eadric, “The Crown is in here. I can sense it. Only Gemfire can neutralise its power.”

“There’ll be defences inside the Tower. We’ll hold them off for you,” said Ander.

The dragons perched on top of the Tower for long enough for their riders to dismount, then soared into the sky again. The other Wyverns had caught up with them now. The aerial battle would be left up to the creatures of the air. Ander kicked down the door and they ran inside. They were almost immediately greeted by a pair of Ogres. One of them nearly crushed Lars’ skull with its huge club but he jumped out of the way, then used the brief second it was unbalanced to stab it through its single eye with the Sword of Defeat. Ander took out the second Ogre. They ran down the winding spiral staircase, wary of more creatures lurking in the darkness.

“That way,” whispered Eadric as he pointed to a door to one side of the staircase, “I can feel the Crown.”

To their surprise, the door opened easily in Eadric’s grip. The room inside had clearly once been a dungeon but was now luxuriously decorated. Brightly coloured silk sheets covered the walls, a table laden with silver cutlery and a roast hog stood to one side, a sedan chair covered in silk pillows to the other. Robyn sat in a velvet-back chair, reading a book and sipping wine from a crystal chalice. On a velvet cushion in her lap was a crown that looked like Gemfire but was not. It was smaller and the jewels were duller, their glow like that of a hungry furnace in Hell rather than the stars in the sky.

“Why, hello, brother!” she said, smiling sweetly, “Did you come to rescue me? I thank you for your loyalty, although the evil King Terian is already dead. By the way, you don’t happen to know where he put his crown, do you?”

“I know exactly where Gemfire is, you traitor!” hissed Eadric, “And its out of your hands!’

“Why, brother, what kind of lies have these criminals been feeding you? They broke the curfew on their exile, you know.”

“I did NOT! I was invited back here by the rightful King Terian!” said Ander.

“Ah, yes, the man who put you all to shame. And yet he died so easily, in the end. I’m afraid his authority ends with his death. As a Queen who ruled Ishmeria jointly, I am the sole ruler now. I revoke your pardons.”

“If you’re Queen, where’s Ishmeria’s Crown?” demanded Lars.

“A good question. Brother, where is my Crown?”

“Gemfire’s with me, and you’ll have to pry it from my cold dead hands, you witch!” he yelled.

“So you won’t see reason. I thought you might not. Long years in exile can change a man,” she sighed, “And with so much of my power wasted because of your interference. I’ll have to spoil the surprise, and show you the remaining Gem of the Lisle Crown.”

Eadric acted immediately but Robyn had already begun casting before they had even entered the room, and her hands were closer to the Crown. Just as his lips formed the last syllables of the ritual to summon the Gem Wizards, his words were contorted into a scream. Gemfire fell from his hands and he pitched forward, a red stain spreading across his back. Behind him stood the last Gem Wizard of the Lisle Crown, bloody sword in hand.

“GARTH!” cried Ander, “you treacherous bastard!”

“No, he’s not in control of his own actions!” Lars pulled him back before he could rush the old man.

“He’s quite right. Garth is a Gem Wizard bound to the Lisle Crown. He only had free will because he had never been awakened. I knew the Wizards of Gemfire would try and make contact with you all at some point, and that he would be exposed to enough power to awaken him!”

“Why didn’t the moron tell us?” Ander cursed.

“Maybe he didn’t know,” said Lars, “They do things to your head when you become a Gem Wizard.”

“And now my only contender to the throne is dead, and I have both Crowns,” she said, stepping behind Eadric and picking up Gemfire while Garth stood guard. They could see the power welling up inside Garth’s impassive eyes as he watched them for any sign of moving towards the Crown.

“Ishmeria will never accept you, even if we don’t succeed!” said Ander.

“I do not care whether you pathetic insects recognise me as your ruler. I will sacrifice them all and populate Ishmeria with more fitting servants. I will ascend to immortality through the power of the Gems!” she said, waving her arm, “Garth! Kill them all!”

Garth sprang forwards, hurling fireballs at them. Lars ducked under the barrage, rolled forward and swung at the Gem Wizard with his dark blade. A dome of magical energy circled him but the hoyl sword passed straight through it, catching Garth across the face before he could dive out of the way. They circled each other.

“Why don’t you use Gemfire?” asked Ander.

“I’m not wasting that much power on you fools. Garth will eventually kill you all, even if the Coryll brat does have a magical sword, and it will amuse me to see you die by the hand of your former ally!”

“Aren’t you worried you won’t be able to use it?’ asked Ander, “I mean, you’re not even a real Queen. Lankshire lost the throne fair and square to Tate.”

“Terian is dead! I didn’t lose any battles! I was manipulating the entire war on all sides! Don’t compare me to you failures!” she yelled.

“Hm… even so, you might not even have enough power to use it,” he said, “You’ve made a hash job so far, prying out the gems of the Crown like some kind of thief and breaking it, and then not even recognising a fake Gemfire!” 

“How dare you! I will animate you as a skeleton and have you kill your own family for this!”

“Please don’t, you’ll only turn me into a frog by accident,” he said, “Look, Lars is holding his own against Garth.”

“I’m really bloody not…” cried Lars as he tried to stop Garth pinning him to the floor and choking him to death with hands that were on fire. He could feel the Goddess’ will protecting him where he should have been dead at the start of the fight but her constant stream of disparaging comments were sapping his will. 

“… Lars is holding his own against Garth, so you clearly haven’t even summoned him at full power. I bet you couldn’t even get the Dragon to show up at all!”

“I’d have thought you’d seen enough of the dragon when it pulled down the walls of your stronghold, but if you insist,” said Robyn, “It might solve all my problems at once to have the Dragon eat you all.”

She placed the Princess Crown on her head, then held up Gemfire in her hands and threw back her head, ignoring the fact that the Princess Crown immediately fell off in her reverie of power, “By Lankshire, Ishmeria and the Crown! ARISE, FIRE DRAGON!”

Gemfire burst into magical fire that almost made her drop it, then a ring of flames appeared on the floor before her. The flames rose into a roaring column that made a large hole in the roof, through which Ander could see a dragon and a Wyvern battling underneath a watchful silvery moon. Then the flames dissipated and a single figure stood there, smaller than a gigantic fire-breathing monster that ate entire castles out of spite, but somehow just as imposing. His eyes smouldered.

“Father?” Robyn took a step back, “Oh, you’ll do. Help Garth kill them! He’s being useless again!”

“No,” he said, “You just said I was fired.”

“I… WHAT?”

“You said ‘fire Dragon’,” said Eselred, “Plus, you didn’t ask nicely. And you told me to kill my allies. And you killed your brother. And you’re my daughter, so you should have a little more respect for me, young madam!”

“You are still a Gem Wizard! You are under the control of the Ruler of Ishmeria!”

“I AM the Ruler of Ishmeria,” he said, “I am a Lankshire. A guardian of Gemfire. And I control myself. Garth, you are needed back at headquarters. If you don’t retreat at once, I’ll force you to!”

“I don’t think he can,” said Ander.

“Oh, you’re right. We never finished teaching him to,” Eselred sighed. Then he drew his broadsword and ran over to Garth. Grabbing him in one hand, he pried him away from a relieved-looking Lars, then threw himself against a wall. Then he swung the broadsword with all his might at Garth. The blow would have bisected an ordinary man but it connected solidly with Garth’s magic barrier. The shield shattered into a million shards, like a globe of delicate stained glass.

“Your shield is down. We retreat when our shields are down,” said Eselred. Watching Garth disappear, he turned to Gweyn, “Your gems need to recharge and you are surrounded by your enemies. I suggest you retreat. Very fast. As far away from Ishmeria as possible, although I doubt any other civilised land will give asylum to a necromancer.”

“That won’t change anything! I’m not the only one who holds my beliefs! How else do you think I found allies? The power that lies within Ishmeria is meant to be used!” Robyn spat, “And it will be at the hands of another Lankshire, father! Our family is cursed! Our fate can’t be separated from this power!”

“No, Robyn, it is an honour to be chosen as a guardian, but an honour with more responsibility than privilege,” said Eselred, “I should have taught you this as a child. I was lax in my duty as a father and as a King. I am sorry, Robyn. I shouldn’t have been hypocritical. But I will still punish you. As a father and as a King. You are banished.”

“And if I refuse to leave? Will you add the murder of your own daughter to our legacy of blood? There will be none left of us – it will be a relief!”

“No, Robyn, it was not an order. It was a fact. You are banished.”

“What do you mean? What’s that sound? WHAT’S THAT SOUND?” she screamed, clutching her head. Lars screamed as well and pointed at her feet. A ring of dark energy had appeared beneath her feet and a miasma rose from it. Withered claws reached up, clutching at her arms and legs. She fought off a few of them but was quickly overwhelmed. She was still screaming as she was dragged into the Abyss.

“Where did you send her?” demanded Ander.

“It wasn’t me, it was Garth,” said Eselred, “He was summoned back at the Round Table. As for where… the same place as Griff, I imagine.”

“Who summoned him? I didn’t think the other Gem Wizards could…”

“It was Adryl,” said Eselred.

“Adryl’s back? But he was stuck underwater or something!”

“When you were busy preparing for your battle, Garth managed to use his powers in reverse. He used an inverse Word of Banishment to summon Adryl directly back to Ishmeria.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“He is incredibly weak but most of his illness was due to being banished from Ishmeria. A Lankshire cannot be parted from the land.”

“But Eadric didn’t seem all that…”

“It is a condition of the mind. Eadric has always suppressed the part of himself that was a Lankshire,” Eselred bowed his head, “And now he has come to realise that he is part of the family, he is dead.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Your Majesty,” said Ander.

“I am not King any more. If anyone deserves to rule Ishmeria, it is Anise. I may have fled with the Crown and hidden it away, but she was the one who arranged everything else. Your return. The Wizards slowly withdrawing their services from the world. She is even more devious than Robyn. I… I am a failure. I will serve better as a mere tool.”

“What about Garth?” asked Lars, “Won’t we see our friend again either?”

“Garth must be trained up properly as a Gem Wizard. The process takes many years. After that, he must decide what to do. We are going to restore the balance of Ishmeria’s magic. We ask you to restore its earthly balance. After that, there should be no need for so much secrecy. Garth can lead a normal life, even though he is a Gem Wizard.”

“I don’t think any of us will ever lead a normal life,” said Lars, “We’re exiles.”

“Terian pardoned you…”

“You don’t understand,” said Lars, “An exile is what you become in your heart. Sometimes you never really leave. I am home, but a part of me will never truly belong anywhere any more. I lost my old life. I lost the right to have it back.”

“Where do you belong, then?” asked Eselred.

“Anywhere my Goddess wishes me to be,” he said, “She may be merciless when it is your time to be defeated, but when you embrace Her word, when you accept your defeat gracefully, she will guide you through the night. And in your darkest hour, when there is nowhere left to go, she will shield you from your worst enemy. She is all aspects of Defeat, kind and unkind. And now she has allowed me to live, I must return the favour and live for her only.”

With those words, Lars turned and walked out of the chamber, dark blade propped up against one shoulder. Eselred took his son’s body and followed him down the stairs. 

“What about the Crowns?” asked Ander, “Is it okay to leave them there?”

“Someone will be along very soon to take them,” said Eselred, “I’m not allowed to. It might trigger my occasional relapses. Of course, I would never do such a thing as fully regain my memory and not tell anyone!”

“Of course,” Ander nodded, taking one last glance at them.

“No looting! You shouldn’t have lost to Terian if you wanted the right to poke around in here!” said Eselred sternly, “Get in front of me or I’ll push you down the staircase!”

“How are you going to push me down the stairs if you’re not behind me?”

"Would you like to find out how? Get a move-on!”


	18. Epilogue

_After the incident, neither Garth nor Eselred were ever seen again, although Eselred sneaked plenty of letters past the supposedly high security of their base. He seemed to be regaining his youth, as though he had been given a second chance in life of sorts. Garth was learning fast and had been allowed administrative privileges in Lisle._

_Adryl was welcomed as the new King. The people liked his innocent charm. Although physically frail, he had a frightening wealth of knowledge on all matters. He worked with Bryan to improve the University of Cambry until it reached international renown. Anise continued to be the real power behind the throne, although she had difficulty employing secretaries in case they were expected to take any more bullets for her._

_Erin and Gweyn returned to southern Ishmeria and founded the new Ishmerian Navy. They were a formidable force, although Adryl forbade them from invading other islands. They got around this by becoming their trade rivals instead, aided by Erven and his nefarious list of black market contacts. Eventually, Erin proposed to Gweyn and they were married. Lenne became the children’s godfather._

_Ander led the Lyle family as wandering adventurers. Like all adventurers, they felt cloistered by the confines of Ishmeria and eventually left of their own volition to seek out new and strange lands. They made sure to return every year to inform King Adryl of the wonders they had discovered for the betterment of learning, and many of their discoveries ended up in Cambry National Museum._

_Erik took over Griff’s role of Border Guard Captain, being of similar temperament. Now that Ishmeria was a vaguely habitable place to live again, illegal immigrants were becoming a real problem. Erik’s axes didn’t find them much of a problem, as they could cut through their necks with relative ease. Sometimes I have to visit Ishmeria disguised as an asylum seeker to make sure Erik isn’t murdering genuine asylum seekers. We get into lots of fights. It also keeps him on his guard, because, like me, many illegal immigrants can fight back._

_Loryn became official Ambassador to the Elven settlement within Ishmeria’s forests. As a result of his negotiation, Elves gained equal rights to humans. His plan of finding a human wife within the ruling family fell short when he failed to find any Lankshire or Tate ladies who wanted to marry such an old man. He considered not telling them his real age in future but decided that was a bit mean._

_As for me…after giving Eadric a proper burial, I went where my Lady Defeat sent me. I am her official bard, the keeper of the history that isn’t written by the victors. I am sent off all over the world to find losing battles and write about them. It is hard work because all battles have a loser – in fact, many of them have no true winner – but sometimes other people get involved in my project, and how the Goddess has a small flock of worshippers. They are pushing me to start a proper religion. I don’t know how I am going to afford all those Churches and Hymn Books and things! I don’t want to end up as one of those money-grubbing Churches that charge money for people’s souls not going to Hell!_

_This is my first book, properly published by Londre’s new, modern printing press. I hope to bring out more soon. My next one is going to be about the Elves of Erion Forest. I hope you enjoyed this one enough to read it when it comes out!_

_Yours faithfully._

_Lars Coryll, Grand High Paladin of Spatula, Goddess of Defeat.  
_


End file.
